


For the Sky

by MercuryPilgrim



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gen, Grey Sith Warrior, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Poor Quinn doesn't know how to say no, Social Anxiety, Tags Are Hard, You don't even know how dubious this is, backstories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2018-09-24 18:28:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9778988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryPilgrim/pseuds/MercuryPilgrim
Summary: Vette is a woman looking for a place, and Malavai Quinn is a man who didn't realise he was looking for someone. Ven'fir is a Sith who doesn't think he needs to look for anything at all.





	1. Korriban

**Author's Note:**

> This feels very stilted to me, and I may come back and rewrite it. I haven't written for pleasure in years, and I'm trying to get back into it! I love SWtOR, and it's characters. Except Riggs, he's annoying. People have a love/hate relationship with Quinn, and I see why. I personally love his character for exactly that reason, because he's not a typically likable person. He's awkward, stuffy and surprisingly nieve. He's also helpful and earnest and actually competant. He's like a cross between a mother hen, and an SS officer, but I love him for it! Still, I wish same-sex relationships ended up in the base game, because my Warrior would be all up on the fabulous ass before one could say 'inappropriate behaviour'.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fateful meeting between Vette and an alien acolyte, and the knowledge that it isn't easy being green. Or blue, for that matter.

Vette wasn’t sure about where her life was going, if she was being honest.

She still couldn’t quite believe her luck; in that she wasn’t dead yet. She had been fully prepared to face a humiliating death at the hands of the Imperials that had found her, only to wake up in a cell with the cold metal of a collar around her neck. She had burned with humiliation at that, although that soon gave way to panic when the Sith jailer demonstrated the capabilities of the metal device.

Vette had never been one to keep quiet, preferring to brighten her own mood by cracking jokes and keeping up a constant stream of commentary. Sith, as she soon found out, were often lacking a sense of humour.

It was a surprise then, when a black robed figure chuckled at her offer to show off her animal imitations. She looked closer, and blinked. Green. There were green Sith?

The man in front of her, whose attention had already passed her over, was indeed green. He was dressed in the garb of an acolyte, and by the warblade on his back, he was a student at the academy. She watched with interest as he spoke with the jailer, and her eyes might have wandered down slightly. She smirked to herself. At least she had a nice view for now, and there wasn’t anything the Sith could do to stop a ‘alien scum’ from looking if he didn’t catch her. It made her feel a little more powerful, despite the collar and the bars.

She hated the idea of a student judging the fate of prisoners. Should this kind of thing not be done by a qualified person? She watched as he recruited the mouthy assassin, fought and killed the old fighter, and murdered the frightened Neimoidian in cold blood. The scent of gore and blood reached her nose, and she made a face, watching the Mirialan Sith (she couldn’t wrap her head around that, wasn’t that forbidden or something?) as he spoke with the jailer, his face impassive. She could kill if she had to, she knew that, but no one could kill like a Sith. The smell hit her again, and her stomach rolled.

As he left, she saw him glance at her, and their eyes met. His were yellow, and she couldn’t tell if that was his natural shade, or from his use of the Dark Side. He brushed dark hair from his face, flashed her a quick grin that made her shiver, and left.

She was left sitting in her cell, the cold collar around her neck and yellow eyes on her mind, her hands shaking from aftershocks.

 

* * *

 

The next time they would meet, she got to study the Mirialan Sith in more detail. He wore armour now, and he smiled at her, pale teeth contrasting against green skin and dark hair. There was a nasty scar over his nose, stretching diagonally over his face and barely missing an eye.

She cracked some jokes and tested the waters with some attitude, and the Sith only grinned and shrugged. No pain, no rage, no shocks.

Vette was understandably confused.

This acolyte couldn’t possibly be a real Sith, he was far too… well, he wasn’t _nice,_ but he was something.

“So, uh… do I get to know your name?” she asked, keeping up with him as they walked along the corridors of the academy. She refused to trail behind him like a pet even if her neck itched and her hands shook. It was dismal and grim in the hallowed halls, and she shivered. “Or do I have to keep calling you ‘the green one’ in my head?”

“I’ve been called worse.” The Sith said simply, “I wonder who gets called ‘alien scum’ more often, me or you?”

Vette blinked. “Probably me. People are at least too scared of you to insult you to your face.”

The Sith nodded thoughtfully, a smile playing about the corners of his mouth. “True. My name is Ven’fir.”

Vette wrinkled her nose. “Mouthful.” She muttered, and the Sith smirked wolfishly. “More than a mouthful, I’d wager.” He said, his tone suggestive. Vette raised a brow. “Really? If you need to say it out loud…”

Ven’fir laughed, and Vette marvelled. “You’re a weird Sith, you know.” She managed, testing the boundaries. “Most would have killed me by now.”  
  
The green man raised his eyebrows. “I’m sure they would. I can’t see why I should though, unless you want me to break your neck?” he asked pleasantly. “I could, if you like.”  
  
Vette made a face. “Uh, no thanks.”

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t until they arrived at the tombs did Vette see what the Sith was truly capable of. He had cut down animals and madmen on the way over the sand, but he almost seemed bored. A few flicks of his blade and they were dead, their blood staining the orange rock a deep crimson. Vette gingerly stepped out of the way of another corpse, it’s eyes open and glassy, it’s mouth stretched in a silent scream.

She eyed the Sith, wonder just how an alien had managed to gain a place in the elite, vaunted ranks of the dark force wielders. She had known of non-human Sith before, Sith purebloods and the odd Twi’lek who had fallen into darkness, but it was odd to see one in person.

Then she saw him fight. The Sith was power personified, ruthless fire tempered with durasteel will and blistering efficiency.

A few frightened troopers ran from him in fear, their minds twisted by the power of the Dark Side, and he let them go, watching with mild interest as they stumbled over themselves to escape.

Vette paused at his side. “Why did you let them go? I mean, I’m all for less murder, but it’s not a very Sithy thing to do.” She commented, hands on the blasters he had pressed into her arms when they had left the jail.

Ven’fir regarded her from out of the corner of his eye. “Why would I kill them? They are no threat to me, there would be no profit in cutting them down, no purpose.”

Vette blinked. “So, it’s all about what, cost benefit analysis for you?”

Ven’fir tilted his head, considered, and nodded. “Yes.”

“So if it had been easier to kill them all, you would have?”

“Well, sure.” He said, giving her a little grin.

Vette was sure her own answering smile was utterly transparent, but he just chuckled and led the way towards yet another crumbling tomb.

 

* * *

 

 

“So, how did a Mirialan get to be a Sith anyway?” she asked, thinking that he didn’t seem to mind her asking about other stuff, so he hopefully wouldn’t kill her for this either.

Ven’fir paused from where he was poking around in the tomb while Vette kept watch, and shrugged. “I’m actually human. I paint myself green every day.” He drawled

The Twi’lek faltered, before sighing. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?” she asked, although it wasn’t much of a question.

The Sith nodded. “Mmmhmm, I would like to think so. Never thought much of the whole ‘Sith Stoicism’ thing.” He admitted. “Not that anyone who is anyone deigns to speak to me, since I’m, you know, green.”

Vette snorted. “Right. It ain’t easy being green. Or blue, for that matter.” She muttered, mostly to herself. Ven’fir laughed anyway.

She nodded as they advanced, before pausing. “Hey,” she said lowly, to get his attention. She didn’t feel being loud in this place was a smart thing to be. “I think this is the place. Just let me get my bearings, yeah?”

Ven’fir just nodded, and Vette tried to tune everything out. This worked very well, until she heard a scuffle, and turned just in time to see the green Sith kick someone in the face so hard they were lifted off their feet and sent sprawling. She fumbled for her blasters, cursing everything she could think of.

An acolyte with truly atrocious choice in hairstyle picked himself up, his face a furious, snarling tapestry of hatred. She felt something awful and off around him, and shivered. The tombs were bad enough, where the feeling of ‘wrong’ was old and faded, like it was muffled by the dust. This acolyte was a boiling cauldron of hatred, and she could feel the Dark Side radiating from him.

“Take your time, slave.” The other Sith snarled, directing his gaze to her. She felt short of breath, confronted by such seething loathing. “Just have the entrance open by the time I finish killing your new master.”

“Vemrin, you useless pile of bantha shit,” The Mirialan greeted with a grin, but Vette didn’t like the look in his yellow eyes. “How did I know I would run into you here?”

Vette paused. “Wait, his name is Vemrin? Like… one letter swap away from Vermin?” she asked, unable to help herself. Ven’fir laughed, and the human almost frothed at the mouth.

“Shut your mouth, alien whore.” He snarled, “I’ll kill you when I’m done with him.”

“You will do nothing of the sort,” Ven’fir said simply, looking down at the human. “You’ll meet your end here, and isn’t it fitting you’re already in a tomb?” he grinned, but there was nothing light-hearted about his expression. His hand twitched.

Vemrin snarled, and Vette fought not to take a step back. “My passions run deeper than yours, alien.” He spat, eyes alright with rage. “I am what it truly means to be Sith. I fought and bled to earn my place here, and my destiny will not be stolen by some soft alien priss!”

Ven’fir regarded him. “Come, then.” He said simply, unsheathing his warblade. “Prove you deserve this more than me."

Vemrin glared, and unsheathed his own blade, and both men assumed stances. Vette felt her breath rush back, adrenaline and fascination making her blood sing. She had never seen two Sith fight, even if these were only acolytes.

Metal clashed against metal, and the air crackled with power and tension. Vette tried to get a fix on Vemrin with her blasters, but didn’t want to hit the green Sith. Ven’fir was fast, his blows fuelled by tempered fire. Vemrin was pure power, his strikes strong enough to make the Mirialan use both hands to push him back. Ven’fir looked to have the upper hand, before Vemrin pulled a trick from his pocket. He threw his hand forwards, and the air blurred and twisted, throwing the Mirialan several feet and onto his back, the edge of the shockwave making Vette stumble. Vemrin was on him in an instant, and the green Sith scrambled to block a blow that would have cleaved him in two. The two men struggled as Vette scrambled to regain her footing and train blasters on Vemrins exposed back.

Ven’fir’s face was determination, yellow eyes blazing. The aura of twisted wrongness was stronger, and Vette couldn’t tell which man it came from. Vemrin grinned down, rabid desire and rage making his eyes bulge and his lips pull back from bloody teeth. Ven’fir opened his mouth as if to call out, and instead he _screamed._ The sound wasn’t anything remotely humanoid, and Vette felt her blood go cold and her teeth set on edge. Vemrin shouted in pain as he the air twisted and tore in front of him and hurled him backwards, clutching his head and staggering. Ven’fir wasted no time in striking him down, leaving the man broken and bloody, writhing in the dust as the victor looked down at him. Grim, Ven’fir wiped the blood from his mouth with a hand, his dark hair damp with blood and sweat, green skin shining and bruised.

Vette hobbled over, wide eyed. “What was _that?_ ” she croaked, and felt the horrible cold feeling slide down her spine. That feeling was coming from Ven’fir, she realised, and she saw his eyes seemed a deeper amber. She fought to urge to step away.

“Force Scream.” He muttered, eyes never leaving the pitiful sight of Vemrin, the human panting on the ground in from of them, beaten and dying.

Vemrin looked up, and his eyes were bloodshot, a split lip leaving a trickle of blood down his jaw.

“I was destined to become Darth Baras’ apprentice,” he snarled. “I overcame more than you, more than anyone to get here.”

Ven’fir watched him dispassionately. “To be honest, I would have respected you more if you hadn’t been such an annoying, whiny ass.” He said simply, and Vemrin huffed out a pained laugh.

“Fuck you.” He managed, and Ven’fir shook his head, a smile playing over his lips.

“Sadly for you, you won’t get the chance.” He said with a little grin, “You fought well,” he nodded, and Vemrin was just a man once more. He wasn’t the avatar of rage and hate he had been when he had walked in, just a young man who had lost. Vette felt little sympathy, everyone struggled and everyone bled.

Ven’fir raised his blade, brought it down on Vemrin’s neck, and the corpse fell to the ground, dark blood pooling around it. The Sith spared the body a moment’s look, before stepping over it. Vette hurried to catch up. “Nice work.” She said simply, and the Mirialan raised an eyebrow as he looked at her.

“Thank you. He was very annoying. A pity really, he was strong, and he would have been cute if he changed that awful haircut.” He shot her a lopsided grin.

Vette didn’t know what to say to that, so instead busied herself with opening the secret vault. The great stone slid aside with a rumble and a plume of dust, and she grinned, hands on her hips. “Uh, you’re welcome?” She called, pleased with her work.

The Sith chuckled. “I appreciate the valuable work you do, Vette.”

Vette decided to not look at the body behind him. “As well you should,” she teased. “Onwards, my green dark lord?”

The Mirialan laughed, and nodded. “Not a lord yet,” he smiled. “Maybe in a few years.”

Vette didn’t doubt it.

 

* * *

 

 

Their return was straightforward, marred only by a small hold up when they crossed paths with a ragtag group, presided over by an overseer. Vette studied the group and sighed. Their frightened postures, rags and scars showed they were slaves. Some were still rubbing their wrists. One slave seemed to have earned the ire of the overseer, who got in his face and spat cruel words. The slave, a Miraluka from the ratty blindfold over his eyes, bared his teeth and snarled right back, defensive and half-feral. Vette raised her brows.

“Didn’t know the Empire let slaves become Sith.” She muttered to her green companion, who nodded, watching as he leaned against a wall until the show was over. “I assume that’s why they’re being shouted at by Overseer Asshole there, and not already scrubbing floors.”

Ven’fir nodded, amused. “New initiative maybe? I’ve heard of it before, but it is exceedingly rare.” He admitted, sulphur yellow gaze watching the fierce Miraluka with interest. His skin was tanned and bronzed from sun, and Vette idly wondered how long that would last if he survived and became Sith. The Overseer was sneering something, and the alien sneered something right back, a few of the other slaves daring to crack small smiles. “He looks interesting.”

Vette snorted, folding her arms. “You’re only saying that ‘cause he’s got a nice ass.”

“We have known each other barely three days, and already you have a low opinion of me.” He drawled, eyes flickering to Vette and back with a little grin. “How mean.”

“You’re a Sith,” the Twi’lek muttered, “As if I could have anything but a low opinion of you.”

Ven’fir laughed, and levered himself off the wall casually, watching as the slaves were led further in by the weasel-like Overseer. He paused. “Clean him up, and he would look rather fetching though, don’t you think?”

Vette fought a smile, something she never thought she would do a few days before. “If you like that kind of thing.” She shrugged. “I prefer my men with eyes.”

Ven’fir raised and brow and smirked as they stepped into the cool interior of the Academy. “How very Imperial.”

Vette felt daring, and gave him a rude hand sign, to which he laughed.

The Twi’lek almost smiled again, but she didn’t let her hands stray far from her blasters.

 

 


	2. Drumund Kaas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The arrival on Dromund Kaas, and Vette's realisation that rain sucks.

Vette was used to awkwardness. She inspired much of it with her humour, and she was adept at ignoring it. This time however, she was stuck in a transport ship with nothing to do but read some stuffy Imperial handbooks, and watch Ven’fir go slowly mad. The second option was, she admitted, sort of funny. The Sith was not a man who was used to staying still, and he had obviously not been stuck in a confined space for an extended period before. He had read all the handbooks, commandeered the galley for an afternoon and fashioned some wonderfully sweet alcoholic creations that gave Vette the giggles, nailed at least two of his fellow passengers and crew, and generally made everyone nervous by scowling and asking if they were there yet. The crew of the transport shuttle were wary of a Sith aboard, even if that Sith was ending up in their pants sooner or later.

Vette sighed and made a face as Ven’fir ambled towards her, yawning and running a hand through his mop of dark hair. The geometric tattoos on his skin stood out in the artificial light of the ship, and made his face look sharp and hawkish. The was a mark on his neck, red and fresh. Vette wrinkled her nose. “Another one?” she asked, folding her arms.

The young Sith gave her a Nexu’s grin. “The Sublieutenant is kinky.” He said in a way that made it sound like he relished every word as they left his mouth, like fine candied fruits. Vette raised a brow. “You’re a whore.” She said, her nose in the air even as she felt a smile tug at her lips.

Ven’fir shrugged and rolled his shoulders. “What can I say? I’m a giver. Besides,” he waved a hand. “She was very grateful. Apparently, most of her bed partners don’t let her get out the cuffs and the gag and the- “

Vette closed her eyes and jammed her hands of her ears. “Nope, don’t want to know. I have to see that woman every day for the next week.”

Ven’fir just laughed.

* * *

 

“Is it always like this?” Vette asked as she peered into the sky, and got a fat raindrop in the eye for her trouble.

The Mirialan snorted. “This is nice weather for Dromund Kaas.” He admitted.

Vette scowled. “Of _course_ it is.” She grumbled, and her scowl deepened as her boots sank into mud as she accidentally missed the edge of the walkway.

Ven’fir walked ahead, his hood up and protecting him from the droplets. “Stick to the path.” He called, amused and not slowing down. Vette mumbled something nasty under her breath, and followed, trying not to think about why her left foot was squelching.

Commander Pritch was the kind of person Vette would have liked to annoy, had he not been an Imperial and everything that entailed. He seemed positively chipper, and Vette shot him a grin that was ignored. Ven’fir and the Commander spoke, and Vette felt her mood evaporate. Slaves? She almost wished they would succeed in overthrowing their masters and gaining their freedom, but she was all too aware of how such plans usually ended. Trying for a revolt on the Imperial capital planet? That was just stupid.

Commander Pritch leaned forward with his hand close to his mouth, clearly intending on being subtle. From the look on the Mirialan's face, he too was aware the gesture was as subtle as a bantha.

“What no one knows is that Lord Baras secretly orchestrated the revolt, and-“

Ven’fir gave him a vaguely disgusted look. “Literally everyone can see you trying and failing to be sneaky right now.” He drawled.

Pritch flushed a blotchy crimson.

Vette sniggered.

“Uh, well… Right, Lord Baras had a hand in this and now the slave captains are threatening to exposed him if they don’t get given more potent weapons.”

Ven’fir rubbed the bridge of his nose with one hand, sighing. “He didn’t think that maybe slaves who not only have no loyalty, but _actively hate_ the Empire might not just go merrily along with his plan and keep quiet when he was done?” he muttered. “Am I _actually_ the only one with a functioning brain?”

Vette coughed.

“And you too, of course.” Ven’fir said tiredly. “Right, who am I killing?” he said abruptly, eyes fixing on the Commander again, who swallowed under that baleful amber gaze.

They tramped through the mud slick camp, and Vette felt her lip curl. “How brave, to sit here and wait under his nice dry tent.”

Ven’fir grunted something agreeing.

“Why don’t you go back and tell him that?” he shot her a vicious little grin. “I’m sure he’d love to hear how his performance could improve.”

Vette chuckled. “Nah. Letting him live with the shame of two aliens doing his job for him is enough.”

 

* * *

Getting in was laughable. Ven’fir was not, by nature, a subtle man. No one can run for help if there is no one left to run, after all.

Vette was happy to trail behind the robed Sith as he swept through the estate of Lord Grathan like a hurricane, leaving bodies and lingering terror in his wake. Finding their contact however, was more of her speciality.

Ven’fir scowled as she led them through the twisting corridors he had gotten them lost in. Vette grinned sweetly at him, and the green Sith’s scowl deepened.

Dri’kill Ba’al had a face that would have been vaguely attractive had he not had an expression on his face that made him look like he had dung under his nose. He looked down his nose at them, and Vette could feel her hackles rising. One look at the Mirialan next to her made her aware he didn’t appreciate it either.

“So,” the man began, his voice smooth and condescending. “You must be the ‘operative’ Lord Baras sent. I must admit, I expected someone a bit stealthier, not some alien savage.”

Ven’fir stared him down, which usually worked. Ba’al just raised a brow. “Well, I can see why you don’t get out in public often.” He muttered, folding his arms and tapping clawed gauntlets against his forearm guards impatiently. “Watch who you’re calling a savage.”

Ba’al sniffed, “I would show a little more respect, if I were you.” He drawled, the scars on his cheeks twisting in the low light. “I’m no Imperial peon, I’ll outlast you and you know it.”

The green apprentice gave the human an obvious elevator stare. “Thank fully, you’re not me.” He said sweetly, the tone jarring and obviously designed to annoy. Vette would know. “Else you’d be too busy staring in a mirror, admiring your new found good looks.”

Ba’al scoffed. “Idiot. Look, we don’t have time for your blathering,” Vette couldn’t help snorting in an unladylike way. “Lord Grathan thinks himself untouchable, locked away in this fortress. Lord Baras wants to let Grathan know that he can be reached, that Lord Baras’ influence can get him even here.” He began to pace. “I have been undercover for a year, and I have discovered that Lord Grathan,” he paused for effect. “Has a son.”

Ven’fir blinked. “Okay.” He said slowly, “Why did that take you a year? You must be really bad at this.” He rolled his eyes. “Maybe in another year, you’ll find out his shoe size.”

The other apprentice gave him a look. “He wears boots, not shoes.” He said, snooty. “You are going to kill the boy. His name is Beelzlit.” He said with a small, secretive smile. “Grathan will become unbalanced, and Lord Baras will have what he desires.”

Ven’fir grinned and clapped his hands together. “Brilliant KillBall, just wonderful.” He said cheerily, “I always love killing children, those hateful little shits. Come on Vette, we have children with stupid names to murder.”

He gestured to her and Vette made to follow, her brows raised. Ba’al scowled. “Wait, you’ll need to disable the security system first, so you’re not seen entering. It’s linked to a defence matrix, so it’s in your best interests to deactivate it.” He advised, and Ven’fir sighed. “Typical. Nothing is ever easy.”

“Find the monitoring stations and destroy them. I’m sure such base destruction won’t be too hard for you, brute?”

Ven’fir gave a sickly smile Vette didn’t like. “Not at all. I _like_ it rough.” He laughed as he turned to leave, leaving the other apprentice with a disgusted expression on his face.

Ba’al watched them go, his lip curling. “Savage.” He muttered.

* * *

Vette smiled as Ven’fir walked nonchalantly towards the young man they assumed was Beelzlit, and the woman with the truly horrendous choice in headwear that must have been his mother. Vette sighed, nobles were so ridiculous.

Beelzlit looked up, and his eyes widened. “Mother, strangers!” he hissed. Ven’fir clapped mockingly, “Well _done_ , clearly an intellect like yours cannot be trifled with.” He muttered, and Vette grinned, folding her arms as they came to a stop before the duo.

“You don’t know the half of it, kid.” She said cheerily, and her grin only widened as the young man narrowed his eyes at her. The mother stepped in front of her child and fixed them with a stare that was reminiscent of a protective Kath lion.

“I,” she began in a tone that made Vette hate her. “Am Cellvanta Grathan. How dare you enter my son’s rooms uninvited? Who are you?”

Ven’fir spread his arms wide, a faux-surprised expression on his face. “Why, we’re the entertainment! Did you forget your own son’s birthday party? For shame,” he smirked. “Vette here does impressions, and I made a mean cocktail.”

Cellvanta narrowed her eyes. “A Mirialan?” she murmured, “And in Sith armour. Yes, I have heard of you. You are Lord Baras’ apprentice.”

Ven’fir shrugged. “I am. I’m also not here for you.” He said, and amber eyes turned to focus on the young man standing behind his mother. Beelzlit swallowed, his knuckles turning white as he clenched his hands.

Cellvanta quickly stepped forward, a full head shorter than the tall, lean Sith. “You are going to have to kill me first,” she said passionately. “My son is just an acolyte, but I am fully Sith.”

Ven’fir raised a brow. “How selfless,” he leered, “That’s not very Imperial at all, Lady ‘Fully-Sith’.”

Cellvanta scowled. “It purely pragmatic. My bloodline will not end here.” She snarled, and wrongness twisted the air. Ven’fir looked eager, like an akk-dog about to be let off its chain. Vette didn’t like seeing him like that. The Mirialan grinned.

“Oh, I rather think it will.”

* * *

Blood stung Vette’s nose, and her ears rang from the sound of blaster fire, lightsabers and screams. Beelzlit was supporting his mother, who was bleeding from a wound in her stomach. He looked up fearfully at the Sith standing over him, two lightsabers humming in his hands, one crimson, and one a deep violet.

“Please…” he rasped as his mother gasped for breath. “Take me. Let her live.”

Ven’fir raised a brow. “That’s fine with me,” he admitted, but Cellvanta heaved herself in front of her son, her blood staining her dress.

“No,” she coughed. “You must not sacrifice yourself for anyone, not even me.” She pinned Ven’fir with a hard look. “You’re caved a bloody swath through a small army, just to kill a boy and what? Send a message?” She coughed again, and there was blood on her lip. “You are mere strides from the master himself,” she hissed, eyes blazing. “End him.”  
  
Ven’fir grinned, and Vette saw Beelzlit shiver. She scoffed, pathetic.

“With a wife like you, who needs enemies.” The green skinned Sith chuckled. Cellvanta’s aging, noble face was twisted in wrath and shame.

“My marriage was one of power and convenience, not love.” She spat the word like it was poison. “It has outlived its use, like my husband.” Her eyes glimmered faintly yellow, and Vette shuddered. Sith were so fucking _creepy_. “I am strong in the Force, but I cannot stand against my husband.” Cellvanta admitted. “I wish for someone to end his… oppressive rule”

Vette laughed out loud. “’Oppressive rule’?” she parroted. “You’re _Sith_ , you do ‘oppressive’ over breakfast.”

Ven’fir nodded, amused. “She’s right, you know. No need to make up reasons to kill your husband, just tell us you want him dead. I really don’t care why you want to have him killed, I want to hear why you think I should be the one to do it.”

Cellvanta looked like she realised the bone that was being thrown to her, even as she scowled and held her stomach, her son hovering over her. “My husband wears a mask at all times,” she murmured. “He was nearly beheaded some time ago, everyone knows it. Kill him, bring me the mask, and my son will assume his identity. You will have our… undivided loyalty.” She hissed, pained. Ven’fir regarded them, interested. “Vette?” he asked, “Thoughts?”

Cellvanta looked furious the Sith was ignoring her in favour of speaking with a Force-blind Twi’lek. Vette smiled and shrugged. “I think you should think about it. No killing the kid, getting to shank a proper evil Sith Lord, and getting some minions of your own? I’m down.” She said, chipper. Internally, nerves were clawing at her belly. She had never faced a proper Lord before, not even with Ven’fir.

The green Sith smiled, and Cellvanta looked hopeful. “Point the way,” he said, as he stowed his sabers at his side. “Don’t fuck with me.” He warned lightly as Beelzlit helped his mother up. “I got in here once, I can get in here again. Tell anyone, and I will assure you the fallout will _ruin_ you before I kill you.”

* * *

Grathan was a pompous prick. He cut an intimidating figure, with his armour and mask, and Vette was shivering from the cold feeling of ‘wrongness’ that frothed in the air around him. Ven’fir could feel it to, and she fought from saying something to him as Grathan postured. The Mirialan snapped out something snarky and quick and Vette barely had time to register it before the fight was upon her and she had to concentrated or lose her head.

Grathan’s rage fuelled blows were bone shattering in their strength, and his free hand was used to twist the force to his will. The air around the two Sith was a whirl of humming, snapping crimson and violet, the ground shaking as the two threw around Force powers with reckless abandon. Her skin prickled as she heard Ven’fir roar, the air in front of him shivering with the effort of the power pushed through it. He was blisteringly fast, but Grathan shrugged off his blows like Vette would an ant that nipped at her ankles. Grathan fuelled his blows with the Force, augmenting his body into a machine of unstoppable force. Ven’fir though, made sure the blows never connected. Vette had her heart in her mouth and her fingers on her triggers as they fought, adrenaline coursing through her veins and making her take deep, gulping breaths of air. Then, with a single mistake from Grathan and a well-timed parry from Ven’fir, a crimson lightsaber finally finished the job of separating Grathan’s head from his body. Vette stowed her blasters and huffed, her hand on her knees as she felt her body shake. That was intense. She chanced a look at her Sith, and saw his eyes blazing amber, his skin shining from exertion and blood smeared over his mouth where Grathan had backhanded him.

He slowly clipped his sabers back onto his belt, and limped over to the fallen Lord, cautious. He knelt and removed the helmet from the head, and grimaced. “I have a strong stomach, but that is disgusting.” He muttered, his voice hoarse from where he had been choked. Vette winced, pleased she usually hung back and supported from range. It kept her away from angry Sith lords with freaky powers.

Cellvanta was being tended to by her son as they swept in, and Vette was riding the high. She had just killed a Sith Lord. Helped to kill, but still. If her crew could have seen her now…

“I sensed his death,” she said by way of greeting. She still wore her stupid hat, but a few locks of short dark hair escaped from it, and it was slightly askew. “I hope he suffered.”

Ven’fir shrugged. “I finished the job started so many years ago,” He said simply, and the newly widowed Lady Grathan nodded.

“I would wash that, before putting it on.” The Sith said to Beelzlit, who was staring at the mask, eyes wide. Ven’fir turned his gaze back on Lady Grathan. “Now, I believe you have a bargain to keep?” he asked, tilting his head. She nodded, meeting his eyes. “I will. I… I have no wish to abose your graciousness, not after this. You have allies in us.” She said loftily, but Vette could tell she knew that by ‘ally’, they meant ‘subject’. Vette allowed herself a vicious smile. The catty noble deserved every moment.

* * *

Dri’kill Ba’al was just where they had left him, making Vette wonder if he had even bothered to go anywhere at all.

“So, you survived?” he drawled, folding his arms. “Surprising. Grathan’s son is dead then?”

Ven’fir nodded. “Of course, KillBall.” He smiled, annoying. “Like taking candy from a baby and choking him with it.”

 Ba’al tutted, his lip curling. “Security must have been rather shoddy, if a brute like you could stomp your way in and kill Grathan’s only son.”

“Please, you’re not my type.” Ven’fir cooed. “Everyone knows boys are mean to the ones they like.”

Ba’al snarled, angry. “Maybe you’ll like a taste of my blade, instead?” He hissed, igniting crimson and taking a stance. Ven’fir sighed, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You… You’re actually doing this, aren’t you?” he asked, rhetorical.

“Killing the murderer of Grathan’s son will solidify my cover here,” the other apprentice said coolly. “You are replaceable.”

“Oh, look at me, I’m so surprised I don’t think I can take it.” Ven’fir drawled. “For a spy, you’re terribly obvious. Now, would usually say a fight like this isn’t worth it. No profit, see?” he reached for his own weapons. “But I think the profit here is going to be pure satisfaction.” He said as he ignited his blades. Vette sighed and drew her blasters. Her fingers were starting to hurt.

Of course, that was when Ba’al summoned a veritable horde of security forces to help him, and things got considerably less satisfying.

* * *

The Dark Temple still lingered in her mind, and her skin felt clammy and foul. Ven’fir was looking pale, his green skin dull and his eyes shadowed.

Vette couldn’t help but wince as the Ravager did its job. This was sickening, and she held no shame about looking away. Her stomach rolled and her nose stung from the cloying scent of blood and metal. Her eyes slid to Ven’fir instead, who watched with a flat expression, yellow eyes impassive.

He was watching this like- like- like Vette would watch a Gizka chasing its tail.

Vette had been around. She knew the Galaxy was a cruel place, she knew that people, as a whole, sucked. This was more than that. This wasn’t even sadism, she could have understood if it was. This was cold detachment, Ven’fir didn’t even blink as the human expired, giving the body one last cursory glance before amber eyes moved away and did not return. A life worth nothing any more.

Baras was done with his victim, and the two Sith spoke, but Vette couldn’t help but stare at the cooling corpse.

Who had he been? Would people miss him when he didn’t come home?

“This… Padawan,” Baras commanded, and even though Ven’fir equalled him in height, it appeared the Lord was looking down at his Apprentice from a great altitude. The Mirialan kneeled and Vette saw his eyes blazing sulphur yellow, his expression hard as he bowed his head in submission. She swallowed painfully. Baras tilted his head. “You will hunt her to the edges of the Galaxy if you have to.”

Ven’fir lifted his head, a small smile catching the corners of his mouth, eyes half lidded. He was excited, Vette realised with a twist of her stomach. This was like a game, watching the akk-dog straining at the leash, excited for the blood of some hapless prey.

“She will fall, master. One way or another.” His tone suggested he would enjoy every second he hunted the Jedi.

Vette couldn’t help but shiver.

* * *

 

Ven’fir seemed to be in a grim, eager mood as they walked towards the hanger they had been directed to. Vette wasn’t sure what to say, for once in her life. When they saw the ship however, she couldn’t help but run to the window to look. It was utterly Imperial, all black and crimson and aggressive styling. It was the coolest thing she had ever seen, and she couldn’t help but grin broadly at her Sith. Ven’fir pretended he wasn’t interested, but she saw his eyes soften and take in every line. Vette realised she was watching ‘love at first sight’, and giggled, the dark thoughts leaving her mind like clouds on a windy morning. “Come on,” she smiled, nudging his arm with her elbow. “Let’s explore, shall we? She’s yours now.”

Ven’fir grinned back, his eyes still on the ship, and Vette was happy to see it was an honest smile.

“Yeah," he murmured, taking in the lines and form. "She is.”


	3. Balmorra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ven'fir and Vette finally reach Balmorra, and Ven'fir gets a taste of what it's like not to have everything come easily. Thankfully, their contact is competent and looks great in those standard issue uniform pants.

Vette already hated Balmorra and they hadn’t even touched down yet. Ven’fir was fiddling with something shiny next to her, apparently unbothered by the rocking of the shuttle and the heavy sound of turbo-laser fire. Vette wasn’t built for this. She wasn’t made for open warfare, for trenches and dying soldiers and barked orders. She grimaced. Think happy thoughts.

Sobrik was mercifully quiet, for a warzone. It would have been pretty once, had it not looked like it had been smashed by a particularly petulant toddler, and left to lie in its own ruin. Vette covered her mouth as she smiled, imagining a literal giant baby reaching down with a cutesy, angry expression. It would cry and Imperials would run, horrified by this monster bearing down on them, armed with drool and chubby fists. She imagined Sith screaming in terror and leaping into ponds to escape, and her giggles got stronger.

Ven’fir raised a brow, concerned. “So, open warfare is hilarious now?” he muttered, amused. “I’ll have to think up some more jokes.”

Vette shot him a grin. “Nah, giant babies!” she laughed, and it was almost worth coming to this stupid planet for the expression on the Mirialan Sith’s face.

Her mirth died down as they entered the office, and heard a poor young soldier getting a dressing down that made Vette wince.

Ven’fir smirked and leaned against the doorframe, watching. Yellow eyes were amused and his attention was fully on the drama in front of him. He was in the way and Vette scowled, daring to give him a light shove so she could see what was going on. She grimaced when he didn’t budge an inch. “What are you made of, durasteel?” she grumbled as she failed to move him. “Move, I want to see what’s got you so interested.”

The Sith obligingly moved just enough so she could stick her head in, keeping that annoying smirk on his face. She tutted and peered inside. “What’s so- oh.” She scowled. “You big pervert.”  
  
Ven’fir’s grin widened.

“You noticed, then?” he drawled, watching as the young soldier scrambled to right himself and his uniform. He was obviously terrified of the officer, who had his back to the door. The Sith approved. Ven’fir’s gaze dropped. “Oh yeah, I _like_ Balmorra.” He murmured, delighted. Vette followed his gaze and wrinkled her nose. “Why does the Empire issue uniforms like that, anyway? They look cool and evil and stuff, I’ll give them that.” She whispered. “But really, do they think the Republic will be so distracted by the sight of a glorious ass, they’ll get themselves shot? Is that why they’re almost painted on?”

“I don’t know,” The Sith admitted, moving graciously to let the young soldier escape. “But I want to shake the hand of the person who designed them.”

Vette felt sorry for the officer as he turned, and presented them with a view almost as good as the one from the back. Dark hair and skin the kind of pale only Imperials managed to pull off without looking sickly, and a set of blue eyes even Vette enjoyed the sight of. She never had been a fan of beards, but that stubble wasn’t too bad… The beauty mark sitting on one ridiculous cheekbone was an interesting addition to what would otherwise have been a plain, if attractive, face.

Ven’fir had the smirk and the swagger of a confident man as he headed for the poor soldier, who seemed rather unnerved by the Sith’s predatory gaze, although he hid it well. Vette felt a twinge of something like sympathy.

Then he spoke, and Vette felt the feelings of compassion melt away. Lieutenant Quinn was, it seemed, a very boring man. He was the kind of dull and stuffy that made her fidgety and restless, itching to cause some trouble. His voice droned and he talked about reports and tactics and even made a race against time with Jedi and spies and rebellion sound tedious.

One look at Ven’fir told her he either didn’t notice the Lieutenant’s sadly lacking personality, or he just didn’t care. She supposed the Sith wasn’t planning on doing much in the way of talking, anyway.

Vette grimaced. Those weren’t happy thoughts.

* * *

 

Vette had been looking for her Sith- and when had Ven’fir become _her_ Sith, anyway? – and had been having little in the way of luck. She had tried to get into the Cantina but had been barred, being neither human nor an official Imperial asset. Grumpy and annoyed, she had no choice but to tramp back to the dull little office and pester the Lieutenant.

It was dark out, and the stars twinkled overhead. She breathed in cool night air, and sighed. It tasted like metal and smoke.

The office had a light on, and she breathed a sigh of relief, Lieutenant Quinn was obviously still awake and inside. Sure enough, the door was open and the man himself was sat at his desk exactly where they had left him several hours ago. Datapads and reports were stacked around him, and a cup of caf was steaming gently by his hand as he typed. He looked up, dark blue meeting paler violet. The light from the screen made his face look washed out. Vette grinned, although she had a feeling it looked forced.

“Vette, yes?” the man spoke, and she decided she didn’t like how he spoke. He had a distinctly Kaasian accent, all Imperial and ‘better than you’. “You are the slave who arrived with Apprentice Ven’fir.” The Officer tilted his head. “I do not believe you are authorised to wander this facility unsupervised.”

Vette anchored her grin on her face, and hopped up to sit on the spare chair in front of the desk. “That’s me.” She said, overly cheery. “I would just _love_ to be supervised as I wander, but Ven’fir has fucked off and I don’t know where he is.” Her tone was nonchalant, and she hoped it was annoying. “So, I came to find out if you knew.”

Quinn didn’t speak for a moment, mouth twisting as he thought. “I am unaware of where he has gone. He did not inform me.”

Vette blinked. “But- but what if he gets hurt or causes some shit, won’t that make you look bad?” she asked innocently, and was rewarded when the Lieutenant frowned minutely.

“It will.” He said at last. “However, that is his prerogative as Sith. I will accept responsibility for any incident, should one occur. If he has not told you where he is going, he does not want you to know. I suggest obeying your Master.”

Vette scowled. “He isn’t my ‘Master’.” She growled, slipping off the desk to stand with her arms folded. Why did Imperial types always assume? She wasn’t even wearing the collar any more, and didn’t she feel stupid for not asking sooner? “So, you can take that assumption and shove it up your ass.”

The Officer narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me?” he asked, tone decidedly frosty. He levelled a look at her that would have made her nervous- had she been a toddler. “I would suggest you leave, if you cannot speak like a civilised person.”

“I thought I wasn’t allowed to be unsupervised?” She smirked. She would show him ‘uncivilised’. This was fun, and not like the ‘shooting things’ kind of fun. “You gonna let me wander around alone, doing who knows what?”

Quinn’s lip curled into a sneer. “If you want some company, I can arrange that.” He said, clipped and cold. He pressed a button on his keypad and one of the guards entered, saluting. Quinn stood, and looked down at the Twi’lek. Vette felt her hackles rise. “Ensign Morency, escort this… girl to her ship. Make sure she does not leave.” He ordered, and Vette felt something nasty and hot boil in her stomach. Girl?

She could start a fight, but she wasn’t sure she liked her chances against the guard. She was a tall, bulky woman and her gun was big. Quinn looked like he was the kind of officer to use his desk as his ride to the top, either by politicking from behind it, or by bending over it, she thought viciously as she was escorted away.

She hoped they would be done with Balmorra soon, so as to leave stuffy, infuriating Imperials behind.

* * *

Sadly, they did not seem to be leaving Balmorra any time soon. Quinn briefed them, and Vette wanted to yawn. The Lieutenant was crisp, concise and knowledgeable, and Vette was bored to tears. She listened, her gaze occasionally drifting to Ven’fir, who was looking serious for once. She supposed Darth Baras had that effect.

She mused on Quinn. She wasn’t above admitting he was efficient, which was rather nice. Half the people they had dealt with previously had rambled and spun their life story to the Sith and Twi’lek, neither of whom cared. She grudging awarded the officer a point in her head, taking him to minus thirteen. Ven’fir was in the lead of the Imperials she had met so far, at a whole three points.

Vette was trying to get dust out of her jacket after their latest mission turned slaughter, while Ven’fir was on holo with Quinn, and she listened in. They wanted them to kill the man’s son? Durmat didn’t seem to be much of a threat, but Baras orders were clear. Vette felt her stomach roll and her mind flickered with images of a scared boy, paying for the crimes of his father.

Quinn had no such qualms about this plan, she realised, as he crisply informed them of their strategy. Typical, she grimaced, Quinn had threatened to shoot one of his own men for incompetence after all. One point was deducted again.

“I will alert you if the investigator appears to be heading to the outpost, my lord.” The tiny, blue figure of Quinn said, standing at parade rest. “I assume you wish to reach the Ensign before she does?”

Ven’fir grinned under his hood, and Vette smirked. She knew that smile, it was one that meant someone was going to be messed with.

“That, Imperial, is none of your business.” Ven’fir purred with a smile, and Vette couldn’t help but stifle a chuckle as Quinn seemed to stiffen. The man looked awkward and bowed, his eyes on the floor.

“I apologise, my lord.” Quinn murmured, and Vette was surprised to hear that his voice was level. Most people got the shivers when a Sith started playing with them. “My inquiring mind often gets the best of me. It will not happen again.”

Vette cringed. ‘Inquiring mind’? Maker, this guy was as awkward as he was stuffy.

Ven’fir laughed, and the officer seemed rather unsure of how to respond. “See that it doesn’t, Lieutenant.”

Quinn straightened and Vette wondered how often he had to adjust the stick up his ass to stand that straight for so long.

“Good luck on your mission, my lord.” The human said crisply, “I will be on holo if you need anything.”

The connection was cut, and Ven’fir chuckled. “He’s fun.” The Sith sighed, stowing his communicator into some pocket in his robes. Vette wondered about that, since he wore form fitting black body armour over what looked to be some kind of flight suit, and a loose black robe thrown over the top, a deep hood covering part of his face and wide sleeves falling to his armoured elbows. It was, she had to admit, less ostentatious than most Sith went for, and it suited the Mirialan, who she had heard bemoaning that fact that barely anything went with green. Still, no room for pockets. Where then, did he store his communicator…?

She blinked, bring her mind to the present and out of the mysteries of a Sith’s wardrobe. “Is he going to pack you a lunch too?” she mocked, “Maybe tell the other Sith off if they bully you?”

Ven’fir gave her a grin worthy of a Nexu. “I assure you Vette, _no one_ bullied me in the playground.”

Vette didn’t doubt it.

* * *

Vette sighed. She supposed killing the foolish lad was necessary in the grand scheme of things, but it still didn’t sit right with her. He was so young and… pathetic. She sighed again, and Ven’fir raised a brow.

“You know it was the only option. He said it himself, the serum might not even have worked. I’m not taking a risk like that.”

The thing was, Vette knew he was right. She felt herself nod as they stepped into Quinn’s offices once again.

She zoned out until she heard Quinn say something she felt like cringing at.

“I computed the likelihood of success as nearly negligible,” He was saying, and Vette rolled his eyes. Not a smart thing to say to a Sith. “In my assessment, however, I appear to have only considered the abilities of a typical Sith.” The man continued doggedly. “Clearly, you are not a typical Sith. I will adjust future calibrations to account for your unprecedented abilities.”

Ven’fir, typically, was enjoying the attention, and smirked. Vette wasn’t so impressed. Great, she thought, he’s also a mathematics nerd. Wonderful.

“Quinn,” the Sith purred, “You really do know your way around words.”

The officer seemed taken aback, and averted his eyes. “I am not so proud as to be unable to admit when I am mistaken, my lord.” He murmured, and Ven’fir’s smile looked sharp. Vette’s mind wandered. Did Ven’fir have a sort of fanny-pack under his robe? Was that where his communicator was hidden?

“-he awaits your contact. My barracks are yours, my lord.” The officer bowed shortly. “Please, use the holo-communicator in the next room to speak with Lord Baras.”

The Sith folded his arms, amused. “Oh, your barracks are open to me, are they?” he said lightly, inspecting the tapered ends of one clawed gauntlet and meeting Quinn’s gaze over the top of them. “How forward.”

Quinn couldn’t hold a blush this time, and his pale cheeks went a shade of pink Vette almost found endearing. It seemed the icy officer was not so used to amorous Sith as he was to tactics and battle plans.

“Ah… If you say so, my lord.” He eventually said, discomfited.

Vette rolled her eyes.

After a rather dull and predictable conversation with Baras, in which Vette could see just how much effort it took for Ven’fir not to sass the man, they terminated the call and were faced with yet another briefing from the Lieutenant. She wondered if she could stand behind Ven’fir and make faces, to try and put the officer off. Tempting.

Quinn stood stiffly, his hand clasped behind his back. Vette let herself look. Lean and not too tall, pretty in a way that made one want to ruffle his perfectly groomed appearance, and in possession of an ass she could bounce a coin off, he was just the Sith’s type. She sighed, grumpy.

“Your final target is the Balmorran arms factory,” the soldier recited, and Ven’fir nodded, perusing the datapad Quin had just handed him. She saw the Sith raise a brow, presumably at the information compiled in the report. Vette couldn’t help a small smirk, as she wondered if the man wrote reports on taking a shower, or folding towels the right way. Probably. “The resistance forces recently captured and made it their headquarters.” Quinn admitted, sounding disappointed. “I would have had some words for the person responsible for that blunder my lord, but we found his body a few days ago. They have therefore had several weeks to get used to the place, meaning an incursion will be a monumental feat.” Quinn allowed himself the tiniest smile, and Vette wanted to step away. Was ‘weird’ contagious? “I must admit my lord, such a position in enemy hands is an embarrassment to the Empire. I am excited to see you lay waste to that place.”

Ven’fir nodded, and an amused smile spread over his face. Yellow eyes were half lidded and self-satisfied in the extreme. “So, I excite you, do I?” he asked, playful.

Quinn lost the little smile very quickly, and made the transformation to awkward mess just as fast. “W-well, I mean to say-“ he paused to find his words, averting his eyes. “You will change the galaxy, my lord.” He admitted. “When I think of the possibilities… I do get excited, yes.”

Ven’fir sighed, still smiling. Vette realised he wasn’t often seen without a smile on his face or a joke on his lips. The difficulty came when those turned vicious. “Pink is good colour on you, Lieutenant.” He purred, drawing attention to how the soldiers pale cheeks were flushed with colour. Quinn seemed to cringe. Vette wanted to go. This was beyond awkward.

“My lord,” He managed, sounding plaintive. “This is not an appropriate place for such uh, talk.” He finished lamely, a picture of social floundering.

The Sith raised a brow, and Vette wondered when he had gotten so close to the other man. “These are your quarters, yes? I doubt there’s a more appropriate place.” Ven’fir’s eyes drifted towards the desk in one corner, utterly neat and utilitarian and just about big enough for two. Quinn’s cheeks changed from pale pink to fuchsia.

“N-nor is it an appropriate time, if I may say.” He continued doggedly. “You are putting me in a very awkward position, my lord.”

Vette almost wanted to facepalm.

Ven’fir leered. “I could think of a few positions for you, Lieutenant.”

Quinn’s eyes widened and Vette decided it was time to step in.

“Ladies, if we could get back to the matter at hand?” she said loudly, hands on hips. “We have shit to explode, unless I’m mistaken? You can braid each other’s hair another day, yeah?”

The officer shuffled and shot her a look that she realised was reluctantly grateful. Huh, she hadn’t expected that. Ven’fir frowned but shrugged, as though he didn’t care. “Fine.”

Vette breathed a sigh of relief.

Balmorra could kiss her ass.

* * *

“Unconfirmed reports suggest the target is Sith, sir.” The Captain reported, his hand on his earpiece and his squad in front of him.

Ven’fir grinned, and relished the look on the soldiers face when he turned to find a crimson lightsaber in his gut, sulphur yellow eyes boring into his own and finding him lacking. The Sith viciously withdrew his weapon in a splatter of blood and the smell of burning flesh, before a boot caught the soldier in the jaw and he went down in a heap, bleeding out and fading fast. Ven’fir stepped over him, and Vette spared the soldier a glance, seeing his eyes lose their life and his body sag. She sighed. A pity.

The Mirialan smiled, and showed sharp teeth. The Mirialan species were very close to humans, save for some minor organ differences, their rather obvious colour differences, and two sets of canine teeth where humans had one set. The effect was subtly unnerving.

“How _ever_ did you guess?” The Sith called, amused. “Did the red lightsaber and Force powers give it away? Or maybe it was all the black.”

The Captain looked around so fast Vette was sure his neck would break. “Contact confirmed!” he hissed hurriedly into his mic, “The enemy _is_ a Sith!”

Ven’fir strode towards him, ignoring the guns and stony faces. A large holoprojection of a man they could only assume was Commander Rylon popped up in front of them, and the Sith had to stop or walk through him. Ven’fir raised a brow.

“Sith, I know why you are here.” Rylon said, voice level and calm. Vette envied him, and pitied him. Ven’fir simply nodded, folding his arms. “You should know that these are the finest troops I have commanded in all my decades of duty.”

Ven’fir nodded again, and unclipped his sabers from his belt, igniting them with a snap-hiss that made some of the younger soldier’s flinch. Crimson and violet glowed and hummed in his hands. “I would expect nothing less.” He murmured, meeting the Captains gaze through the hazy blue of the holo. “Come on.”

* * *

Captain Eligyn was the last one alive by the time Vette’s fingers released her triggers. The air smelled like blood, blaster fire and singed plasteel. She should have been bothered that she didn’t notice it much. The Captain coughed and blood trickled down his chin.

“The Commander…” he rasped, seemingly to himself. “He should have been here by now.”

Ven’fir sighed, and for once, Vette didn’t think he was enjoying this game. “It wouldn’t have made a difference if he had been.” He said simply, squatting low to speak to the soldier.

Eligyn coughed again, and he managed a little smile. “So, he’s safe. Good.”

Ven’fir shook his head as they heard boots walking towards them, and the pop and crackle of the camera’s meeting their end. “I don’t envy you this.” The Sith admitted, standing straight. “I really don’t.”

Rylon looked troubled as he joined them, hearing the Captain rush to tell him to save himself. Vette scowled. He should be feeling bad. Loyal Imperial or not, this was fucked up.

“Just put him out of his misery, Sith.” Rylon ground out, and Ven’fir sighed, his crimson blade humming in his hand. There was a pause, the only other sound the wet rasp of the Captains breathing. “He should die knowing the truth.” He said at last, pinning the Commander with a yellow gaze that brooked no arguments. “Tell him.”

Rylon looked like he wanted to argue, but the Sith was not a man to back down easily. Eligyn went to his death knowing the truth and hating it, and Rylon had to look away as Ven’fir cut the other man down. Vette felt something twist her stomach.

They listened as Rylon spoke of his passion for the Empire, the sadness of betraying the Republic troops and of his son. Ven’fir looked uncharacteristically grave. “Your son died quickly, and faced his fate.” He murmured, hiding the truth. It was a lie Vette appreciated. “Prepare yourself.”

When Rylon lay cooling on the floor, Vette came up and bumped Ven’fir’s shoulder with hers. He looked down at her and she offered a little smile. “Could have gone worse.” She reminded, and he gave a little chuckle. “I suppose. All this spying and backstabbing, I’m not used to it.” He grumbled. “I’d rather just… say it outright.”

Vette snorted. “I know. That’s why you have no friends.” She teased, and the mood began to lighten a little. Ven’fir tilted his head. “You’re my friend.” He said simply. Vette didn’t know how to respond to that, and thankfully she didn’t have to. Ven’fir’s communicator sounded, and she was spared having to answer. Quinn, who was on the line, was awarded another point on her head for his impeccable timing.

“My lord?” the officer began, looking concerned. “I believe we have a problem.”

Ven’fir sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Of _course_ we do.” He muttered. “Go on, Quinn.”

“Yessir.” Came the crisp response. “I heard your entire conversation with Commander Rylon.”

Vette blinked. “How?” she blurted out, at the same time Ven’fir scowled. “Have you been spying on me, Imperial?” he all but growled, and Vette matched his anger. How dare this stuffy, boorish excuse for an officer spy on _them_?

Quinn, to his credit, didn’t cringe. “No, my lord.” He assured. “As I mentioned earlier, I have been surveilling the Jedi investigator. She bugged Rylon’s quarters, and she was listening to you. I heard what she heard.” He paused “She knows everything.”

Ven’fir swore; an ugly, coarse word. “Where is she?” he demanded. “I will find her myself.”

Quinn inclined his head. “Heading to the spaceport, my lord. She was heading for her ship, but I have had my men cut her off and delay her. I am systematically blocking her avenues of escape and transmission, herding that Republic scum to what she believes is her only hope - the spaceport in Sobrik.” He said, and he sounded viciously pleased.

Ven’fir nodded, tense. “Good work. Keep her there.” He warned. “I’m on my way.”

Quinn hesitated again, before speaking. “I’m afraid there’s more, my lord. Reports indicate she is wielding a lightsaber, leading us to believe she is a Jedi Knight. I urge caution.”

Ven’fir managed a smile, and it contained no humour. “I think you forget Quinn, I have a lightsaber too.”

* * *

The woman waiting patiently for the Imperial officials was just like Vette had imagined, in personality at least. She hadn’t looked shocked or annoyed at the Sith running in to engage her, and the Twi’lek couldn’t help but get irritated at that.

Of course, the words out of her mouth made Vette hate her even more, for the feeling of horror and worry that twisted her insides.

“You are too late, Sith.” The Jedi began, turning to meet them and revealing a pretty face under the sunshine yellow robe. “I have already transmitted my information to the Jedi council. Nomen Karr has the proof he needs. Master Karr can and will expose every Sith agent in the galaxy.”

Ven’fir’s expression twisted into something ugly. Vette looked at him nervously. The Sith was used to getting his own way, playing everything like a game in which he was destined to emerge victorious because that was simply the way things were. Vette imagined him a rather spoiled child, now his toys were rebelling and he was not taking it well.

“They’ll have to do it without you.” He snarled, eyes blazing amber yellow. The Jedi tilted her head, serene. Vette hated her. “So, enjoy your delusions.”

“Enjoyment is not part of the equation,” the Jedi recited, as though none of the words were her own. “I have purity of purpose. I seek neither thrills nor satisfaction. Unlike you, I am calm.”

Vette scowled. “No enjoyment? No fun, no satisfaction of fear or desire? Not much of a life, is it, droid lady?” she muttered, and the Jedi turned flat eyes on her. Vette shivered. Jedi had been the ideal when she was young. Perfect and good and kind and _better_. Now, on the wrong side of one, she found them creepy.

“Unlike me, you’re about to find yourself dead.” Ven’fir snarled, face furious. He hid his worry well. Darth Baras would do to them what he did to the Republic spy.

“If you persist in this aggression, I will be forced to strike you down. The dark side shall fail you.” The Knight warned, and the Sith scoffed. “You’ll find that I am nothing if not persistent, Jedi. The dark side has not failed me yet.”

She shook her head. “Save yourself,” she urged. “Surrender, and the Jedi Council will help you find your redemption. You can return to the Light.”

Ven’fir ignited his blades, and Vette found their hum comforting. “Don’t you pompous, self-righteous Jedi ever shut _up_?” He spat, settling into his Ataru form, comfortable and fluid. The Jedi displayed the tiniest frown at his dismissal of her sermon, and her own blade awakened in sky blue. Vette cocked the safeties off her blasters, and forced down the lump in her throat. She should have felt terrible about helping strike down a Jedi, a guardian of peace and truth. Instead, all she wanted was this droid in skin put down, so she and her Sith could live another day. She scowled, and curled her fingers around twin triggers.

* * *

The Knight lay, gasping and scrabbling for her weapon. Ven’fir kicked it from her grasp, and it came to rest near Vette’s foot. It was a pretty thing, all silver engravings and clean lines. Vette couldn’t stop looking at it.

“Your v-victory means nothing,” The Jedi coughed, barely able to stand up. There was a wound in her stomach, slowly staining her sunshine robes crimson. “The proof is already transmitted, you have already l-lost.” She looked up at the alien Sith, all determination and the smallest amount of ‘fuck you’ in her eyes. “Strike me down. I am at peace, knowing the greater good was served. You will not gain the satisfaction of fear from me.”

Ven’fir’s intent was to do just that, but the hiss of the doors made him pause and look up. Quinn strode towards them with a full complement of soldiers following him. Vette recognised Ensign Morency, and scowled. The officer only had eyes for the Sith and the Jedi.

“I do hate to burst your bubble, Jedi,” he began, something nasty in his eyes, and his expression malicious. She saw a smile creep over the Mirialan’s face, and she almost shuddered. “No,” Quinn corrected himself, and his eyes glittered unpleasantly. “That’s a lie. I’m revelling in it.” He came to a stop in front of them, standing straight and immaculate as always. “I intercepted your transmission. The Jedi know _nothing_.”

 Vette could tell he was delighting in breaking the Jedi’s spirit, and couldn’t tell if she liked him better when he was a bore.

Ven’re smiled at the officer, bright and honest and relieved. “Quinn, I could kiss you.”

The officer looked down demurely, but there was a pleased smile on his face. “Only doing my duty, my lord.” He murmured. “I had her monitored and screened the entire time. There was never any risk at all.”

Vette raised a brow. “So… you lied to us?” she drawled, despite the desperate relief clawing at her lungs.

Quinn gave her a look. “No, I merely didn’t waste time with more information than was needed in the moment. Did you wish me to give you a full report at that very second?”

Vette scowled, and waved a hand. “You don’t get to pick and choose who knows what.”

The officer was cold now, icy. “Who does, you?”

Ven’fir raised a hand for silence, and got it. He stood in front of the Jedi, his crimson blade humming in his hand.

The Knight looked up, and Vette was almost pleased to see she was frowning. “Gloat all you like.” She managed. “Nomen Karr and his padawan will defeat you, and I remain at peace.”

“Frankly, I don’t care if you’re at peace or not.” The green Sith drawled, fury having receded now the danger was over. “And I will cut them down just as I have you.”

“I am resigned,” the Knight coughed, attempting to remain dignified. “Strike me down, I will not stop you.” She stood and bowed her head, waiting. Vette felt her brows raise. Such little fight? A Sith would have been thrashing in their bonds, trying everything to grasp onto life.

Ven’fir’s smile was insidious and predatory. “No…” he murmured, as if to himself. “No, I’m not going to kill you.”

The Knight looked up, bare surprise on her face.

Quinn stepped in smoothly, cuffs in his hands. Vette didn’t want to know what comments the Sith could make about those. “I will take her into custody, my lord.” The officer assured, stepping over to the wounded Jedi. He held out a hand, gloved in close fitting leather. “Your lightsaber, Jedi?” he asked, polite and satisfied in the extreme. The Jedi jerked her head towards Vette, and she picked it up. It was heavier than she had expected. Her mouth was dry, and she couldn’t think of anything to say as she passed it over to a sharp-eyed Quinn, who stowed it away. “Men, take her to her new home in the main prison. Patch her up, make sure she survives, at least.” He ordered, and they watched as she was led away, dignified and shamed. The officer tilted his head. “I’m sure you know what’s you’re doing, my lord,” he began. “But sparing the Jedi is ah, a little unusual.”

Ven’fir gave a lopsided smirk, his sharp teeth on show. “We will wring her for all the information in that pretty head of hers,” he said simply, something cruel and satisfied in his tone. “She will be of use. And when she isn’t… Well, she’ll be taken care of, like all trash.”

Quinn nodded, a smile playing about the corners of his mouth. Vette shuddered at the sight of the two of them.

* * *

It was only later, when they were heading back to the Fury, did Vette finally believe they were leaving the stupid planet. “I hate this planet.” She grumbled, “And everyone on it.”

Ven’fir laughed, the tattoos on his face moving with the action. “Well, I don’t mind it so much.” He smirked. “I only regret that I didn’t have the chance to get into the Lieutenant’s pants.” He sighed. “I would have liked to make him scream.”

Vette made a disgusted face. “Him? Eugh, really?” she shot him a disbelieving look. “I’ll bet he uses a checklist in bed, and then writes a report on it the morning after.” She grunted. “Probably just lies there too.”

The Sith raised a dark brow. “You really don’t like him? I guess he’s a bit… cold.” He hummed. “But that’s part of the challenge, right? It’s the shy ones that are the freakiest,” he said like she cared. “You just have to… melt the ice.” He smirked. “Imperials are all repressed anyway, so they end up _kinky_.”

Vette sighed, “I’ve told you that you’re gross, right?”

“Yeah,” the Sith grinned. “Often. What does the Sith code say? There is no peace, only passion. Well, I’m just… embracing the code.” He purred, eyes half lidded and mouth an inviting curve. Vette wrinkled her nose. “Right.” She said simply, elongating the word to show her disbelief.

They rounded the corner to their hangar, and were met with a solder with his back to them. Ven’fir looked delighted. “I’d recognise that ass anywhere!” he mumbled, before plastering a grin on his face. Quinn seemed to be admiring the Fury, tipping his head considering to the side.

He turned as they approached, and the smallest trace of a surprise was present on his face. “I hope my being here is not intrusive, my lord.” He said, with a stiff little bow. Vette rolled her eyes and folded her arms, unimpressed. “I beg an audience.”

Ven’fir watched him bow with surprising dispassion. “As much as I like begging in the bedroom,” he began, and Vette got to see the officer flush faintly pink. “We’re not there yet. It doesn’t become an officer.” The Sith said plainly, and Quinn nodded, apparently having to stop himself apologising again.

“Pardon me, my lord.” He settled on, “I will not mince words, then. You are aware Lord Baras was kind enough to give me the choice of where to serve,” he began, hands behind his back. “I’ll admit, I wasn’t sure I would ever be given the opportunity to leave this sorry excuse for a planet.”

Ven’fir chuckled. “See, Vette? You two have something in common.” The Twi’lek scowled.

“Ah, yes, my lord.” Quinn ploughed on, dogged. “Aiding you and your mission has rather reawakened the ambition I thought buried,” he admitted. “I wish to serve the Empire to fullest extent of my abilities, and frankly, here is not where I can be of most use.” He said, dark blue meeting hawkish yellow.

Ven’fir nodded. “You are wasted here,” he agreed. “You’re obviously more competent than a hundred of these… officers combined.” He said, lip curling. Balmorra had not impressed him. Quinn gave a small smile, pleased to be recognised. “Thank you, my lord. Therefore, I wish to take my talents elsewhere. I cannot think of a better place that with you.” He took a breath, and Vette could see the effort it took to keep steady. This must have meant a lot. Quinn knelt, and Ven’fir raised a brow. “I will pledge myself to you,” he murmured, keeping his head bowed and his eyes firmly on the floor. “I am ready and willing to serve you in any capacity you see fit.”

Vette rolled his eyes, that would be taken differently. Sure enough, Ven’fir leered. “Whatever capacity I see fit?” he repeated, amused. “I rather like the sound of that, Quinn. How exciting.” He purred, and the officer went pink again.

Vette made a gagging sound, “Exciting? I think nauseating would be more accurate.” She grumbled. Ven'fir shot her a look, “If you can’t keep quiet, you can wait on the ship.” He muttered, annoyed. Vette raised her hands, grumpy.

Quinn dared to look up, and his expression was intense. “My lord, I will prove myself to you.” He said, and Vette could detect the faintest hint of desperation. Interesting. “I am a top-notch pilot, military strategist and a crack shot,” he said, earnest. “I can fly this ship, plan your battles, and asses and put down your enemies. I can patch your wounds with my medical training, and I will be as tireless and loyal a subject as you could wish for.”

He bowed his head again, awaiting the response. Ven’fir sighed. “Quinn, you didn’t need to recite your _entire_ résumé. I would be pleased to have you.”

The officer looked up, half surprised and pleased. “I assure you my lord, the pleasure is all mine.” He murmured. “I shall submit my reassignment papers as we depart.” He bowed his head, and Ven’fir smiled. “Perfect, shall I show you to your quarters?” he grinned, walking towards the ramp up to the ship. “Not that you’ll be sleeping there too often…” he murmured, and the officer went fuchsia, an almost pained expression crossing his face.

“Yes, my lord.” He whispered, keeping his eyes respectfully down. “As you command.”


	4. 4. The Fury (En route to Nar Shadaa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interludes from the Fury, on the way to Nar Shadaa. Poor Quinn is feeling somewhat out of his depth, and people get a bit more backstory.

Malavai Quinn was a man of exacting standards and efficiency. He installed himself on the ship, aptly named ‘The Fury’, and quickly managed to make himself indispensable. It was a trick he had been using for most of his career, to make it so things cannot run if your absence. He quickly learned all the complicated or boring tasks no one wanted to do, wrote any notes in a shorthand incomprehensible to anyone other than himself, and made sure to take exactly two days of shore leave once everyone was good and used to things being done without them having to think about them.  The resulting panic, and relief once he returned, made sure no one entertained thoughts of getting rid of him.

He tried the same thing on the Fury, and quickly found that he may have made a grave error in becoming crucial to the workings of the ship. Vette started doing less, and to stop things from getting out of hand, he picked up her duties too. Then Ven’fir started getting restless on the long trip, so he made sure to come up with things to keep the Sith entertained. Then a few old acquaintances remembered his existence and asked for some help with an assignment or two. Lord Baras sent him more emails that all the previous combined, asking for reports on everything from Ven’fir’s combat training, to asking if his apprentice was eating enough vegetables. He was used to tiredness, but even he was feeling the exhaustion as he fiddled with the squeaky pilot’s chair on the bridge. He sighed, his uniform jacket over another chair and his undershirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He lay on his back on the hard floor, fully aware that fixing squeaky chairs was _not_ his job. Still, no one else seemed to be stepping up to do it, so here he was. He fumbled for a wrench to tighten an offending bolt, and let his mind wander. He had asked Toovee to handle this, but the droid was fixated on repainting the Sith’s quarters. Again.

Footsteps drew him from his thoughts, too heavy to be Vette and not metallic enough to be Toovee. Ven’fir, then.

The Sith had been a relentless flirt, keeping up a constant stream of low level lewd remarks that the newly minted Captain never felt he would be able to handle with grace. He was unused to attention of this sort. He had been propositioned before, but usually by people wanting a favour, or those who were looking for an officer in their pocket. Most Imperial officers just dealt with any amorous Sith as they came, but Quinn had never felt comfortable with it. He supposed he had been on secluded Balmorra for far too long, and Sith were a surprising rarity there.

He heard the footsteps stop, and shifted to wriggle out from under the wide chair. He heard Ven’fir chuckle, and his weight settle against something.

“Not that I don’t enjoy the sight of you half out of uniform and on your back,” he started, and Quinn mentally sighed. There it was. “I must ask, what _are_ you doing?”

The Captain extricated himself from the chair, and quickly stood up, realising too late his hair was probably a mess, and there was a little smudge of machine grease on his cheek. He scrubbed at it, embarrassed, as he met his Lords eyes. “I’m fixing the chair, m’lord.” He murmured, “You said it was annoying you this morning.”

Ven’fir’s eyebrows headed for his hairline. “I suppose it was annoying, but you didn’t need to take the thing apart and fix it today, Quinn.” He said simply, as though Malavai’s dedication was _weird._ “I didn’t know your skills included ‘fix-it man’ too.”

Quinn allowed himself a little smile. “They don’t, my lord. I would avoid sitting in this one, if I were you.”

Ven’fir’s eyebrows rose higher in surprise and he laughed.

Quinn liked that laugh. It was utterly unrestrained, and while the volume sometimes made him wince, it was always refreshing to hear honest laughter, and not the quiet titters scheming Sith managed to let out.

“Vette can have that one then,” the Mirialan grinned. “You’ve been on duty since… well, since before I got up this morning, and I’m about to head off to bed now.” He said, shrewd. “Have you taken a break?”

Quinn fixed his hair as best he could and straightened his undershirt, wishing he had kept his uniform jacket on. He felt distinctly unclothed in the thin garment. “I don’t need-“

“If you drop dead from exhaustion, I’ll have you posthumously demoted.” The Sith grunted, narrowing yellow eyes. “Besides, l you’re making the rest of us look bad.”

Quinn blinked. He hadn’t thought of that. Was he showing up his superior? That wasn’t good. His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Ven’fir sighed. “That was a joke, Quinn.”

The Captain felt stupid, and couldn’t help his skin flushing. He could feel treacherous crimson suffusing his cheeks, and ducked his head. How embarrassing, could he not even communicate like a normal person? Clearly not.

“Oh. My apologies, my lord.” He murmured, head still bowed. Ven’fir grunted, and levered himself off the workstation he had been leaning on. “I… Apologies.”

The Sith waved a hand, yawning and showing off impressively sharp teeth. “Whatever. Have fun with the chairs.”

Then he was gone, and the Captain stood there like an idiot, feeling embarrassed and annoyed with himself, his hair a mess and oil on his cheek.

 

* * *

 

There were a lot of things Quinn liked to keep hidden. Certain circumstances regarding his family, he would rather not share with anyone, for example. He wrote a letter detailing his promotion to his mother out of obligation only, and she wrote one back for the same reason. It was short and curt, and reminded him of things he’d already failed at.

‘Do not disappoint’. The letter read at the end. The unspoken ‘again’ was implied. He kept the letter, as he did all the others. It was not out of sentimentality, but rather as a collection of evidence. He filed it away, archiving it on his personal holo-account, and hoped never to have to look through it again. Pride that had been warming his belly was gone now, extinguished by a cool tone and not so subtle reminders of things he would rather forget.

Malavai Quinn didn’t drink often, but sometimes he wished he could find something strong that tasted like regret and bad decisions.

 

* * *

Gradually, Quinn settled into life on the ship over the next few days. Toovee cooked, which was a relief since Ven’fir not only ruined anything he got his hands on, but Vette often got impatient and ate the ingredients because preparation would take too long. Malavai didn’t dare let them know he was a passable cook.

Ven’fir might have been a calamity in the kitchen, but he was surprisingly adept at mixing drinks. Quinn was certain the Fury did not have a liquor cabinet in its spec, but there was one in the kitchen now, and he supposed it didn’t really matter too much. It was odd, he mused, that the Sith was so good with mixing his own alcohol. He was, and Quinn fervently hoped no one was reading his mind right then, a spoiled brat. Spoiled brats had people to do that for them.

The Mirialan expected everything to go his way just because he wished it, and the results could be ugly when the universe didn’t comply. Malavai usually couldn’t stand people like that, but Ven’fir managed to be charismatic and charming enough that his episodes didn’t seemed to register as much. Ven’fir was loud and possessed little tact, and even less shame. He was very open about, well, _everything_. It didn’t help that Vette had no mouth filter either, and so Quinn was left feeling awkward and prudish alone.

He had never asked outright, but the Mirialan had told him anyway, about how an alien managed to be sponsored by one of Dromund Kaas’ most noble families. His parents had been Jedi, excommunicated from the order for their affair, but still loyal. The Polaris matriarch could not bear children of her own, and found the idea of raising a Jedi child as Sith to be deeply amusing. So, the stolen child became Ven’fir Polaris, scion of a noble house, all because of a joke.

Quinn didn’t pry, but the topic suddenly became frigid and the Sith didn’t wish to speak of it further. The captain hadn’t known what to say to that, so had simply stayed quiet, awkward and feeling something wriggling in the pit of his stomach. The Mirialan had given a brittle grin, and traced one finger over the geometric tattoos over his face. There weren’t many of them, and they were surprisingly subtle, for such a character so larger than life as Ven’fir.

“Went through a teenage rebellion,” he had said, his skin giving way to stark black ink. “Wanted to get these done, like proper Mirialan’s do. My mother did this when she saw,” He said with another horrible grin, his finger now moving over the scar that marred his face. It stretched from his forehead down to his cheek, over the bridge of his nose, neatly ruining the geometric designs. “I didn’t get any more.”

Quinn swallowed painfully, and refused to let his face show any of the emotions churning in his gut. Pity was one, and so was an odd feeling of dread and kinship. He managed to catch himself before he touched the mark on his own face, much less obvious but just as troublesome.

_‘Not quite perfect’_ , a voice seemed to whisper, and it sounded like his mother. He ignored it, like always.

 

* * *

It wasn’t until Quinn had the unfortunate experience to field a call from Lieutenant Quisun, who blushed and stuttered and looked both hopeful and nervous, did the Captain realise that Ven’fir might be serious about wanting him in his bed. Lieutenant Quisun had given Ven’fir some trivial task back on Balmorra, and Quinn couldn’t for the life of him figure out why the Lieutenant was now after the Sith’s personal holo frequency. It wasn’t until the dejected Lieutenant disappeared from the holo, did Vette fill him in.

“Ven’fir had him,” she said with a crooked grin, leaning against the doorframe. “Behind the tent at Sundari outpost.”

Quinn felt himself go pink, his mouth falling open in surprise. The Twi’lek smirked, relishing his discomfort. “Yeah, I made myself scarce for that. You sent him away though, how cold.” She snickered, pausing and eyeing him in a way that made the Captain feel self-conscious. “He looks a bit like you.” She laughed, and made to leave. Quinn was left standing alone, red faced and with the realisation that Ven’fir seemed to have a type, and he was it.

That was not a cheering thought.

 

* * *

Quinn had been waiting for Vette to finish in the bathroom, listening to her warble. She was thankfully quick in the shower, which she said was because she didn’t have hair to wash, which Quinn agreed probably helped. He yawned and shook himself awake again, wanting nothing more than to shower and go to bed. He had hit the training room after his shift ended, and enjoyed a whole half hour of uninterrupted exercise before Ven’fir had found him and decided to watch. The Sith had smirked and leaned against the wall, and the officer had done his best to ignore the pricking feeling of being stared at for the next half an hour. It was on some level, flattering. Malavai was significantly older than the Sith, and the fact that Ven’fir seemed to be intent on chasing him? That was utterly _not_ on the cards, but a compliment all the same. Of course, Ven’fir shamelessly hit on him every time he could, and took every opportunity to get his hands on the Captain. Quinn did not enjoy physical contact much, and was even less used to it, especially from a young, attractive man like the Sith. He sighed, feeling his skin crawl as he recalled warmth seeping through his clothes as Ven’fir came over to help put the weights away, the Mirialan letting his hand rest on the small of his back as he leaned around him. He had jumped at the contact, and Ven’fir hadn’t seemed to notice or care his Captain was uncomfortable.

His mind sometimes entertained thoughts of what it would be like to let Ven’fir do the things he often suggested. He tried not to think, but it was hard not to when the attention was constant. It was odd, in that while the Captain was curious enough to have the occasional steamy daydream, he would be the first to refuse such an offer, not least because it was a huge breach of protocol. In his experience, Sith got what they wanted and when they were bored, tossed their spent entertainment away. He refused to lose his job over a one night stand who wouldn’t protect him afterwards. He swallowed painfully as his head swam, his skin crawling as he recalled hands and teeth and perfumed skin, pretty smiles and an iron grip.

He burst from his own thoughts as the door to the bathroom opened and Vette stepped out in a cloud of steam, a towel wrapped around herself. It was short and Quinn quickly averted his eyes, awkward. The Twi’lek gave him an unimpressed stare. “What, can’t handle more alien than you usually see?” She asked, lip curling and eyes narrow. The Captain sighed, and kept his eyes away.

“Why don’t you have clothes on?” he muttered, pained and voice clipped. Vette shrugged, causing her towel to ride up an inch or two over her thighs.

“Dropped them in a puddle.” She answered lightly. “Besides, you didn’t answer my question.”

Quin allowed himself to turn his head back and meet her eyes, folding his arms. He was still in his training gear, and he regretted not changing out of the short sleeved top as he felt steam condensate on his bare skin. He usually wore long sleeves, gloves and a high collar precisely because it covered so much, and this was beyond uncomfortable.

“Vette, it’s not proper.” He muttered, sighing. Maker, he was tired. “It has nothing to do with you being- Uh, an alien.” The words sounded uncooperative in his mouth, stumbling and inelegant.

The Twi’lek scoffed. “Right,” she said drawing the word out. “So you, the fanatical Imperial, don’t hate aliens? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

Quinn wondered how this was his life. A Twi’lek grave robber in a too small towel was questioning him on his attitude towards the socio-political viewpoint of the Empire, while they both served on an alien Sith’s starship, chasing Jedi across the galaxy. He sighed, and looked a little lost.

“I’ve not really thought about it.” He managed, lamely. He just wanted a _shower._

Vette blinked at him.

“You’ve… You’ve never thought about it?” she parroted. “You’ve honestly never noticed the slavery, the discrimination, the barefaced cruelty and racism that your Empire promotes every day?”

Quinn wanted to scream. “No,” he muttered instead. “It’s really not something I have noted, or have much of an opinion on. I don’t want to wipe all aliens off the galaxy,” he said, sounding tetchy. “But I also don’t feel the need to go on a crusade to free any of them. I don’t know many aliens personally, save you and Lord Polaris. I don’t want to murder either of you, if that helps.” He said, eyes narrowed. He could feel himself getting frustrated, and desperately tried to calm himself. “So no, I don’t think about it much. Now, can I _please_ go and take a shower?” He knew his tone was nothing like polite, and by Vette’s raised eyebrow, he was looking rather frazzled.

She snorted, flicking lekku over her shoulder. “Fine. Keep your eyes closed. One day you’ll realise that doing nothing is almost as bad as the ones who hunt us for sport.” She said simply, and turned to leave, leaving him standing there dumbly, annoyed and confused. His mind was churning now, and there went any hope of a restful night’s sleep. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, trudging into the shower.

It wouldn’t be until he was done and groping blindly in the steam, did he realise Vette had also stolen all the towels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think Quinn is a huge racist personally, because he disapproves when you select conversation options that are. He doesn't seem to swing one way or another on the subject, save for disapproving when you go out of your way to be a dick to the poor randos that have the misfortune to cross your path. So, I decided to write him as someone who just hasn't thought about the subject, because it's so ingrained into his culture that he doesn't see it as abnormal. It's just the way things are, so he has no strong opinions either way. Also, he's happy to enter into a romance with an alien Warrior, so he can't be that much of a Nazi...


	5. Nar Shaddaa - Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nar Shaddaa is not Captain Quinn's idea of a good time. Naturally, Ven'fir loves it.

Nar Shaddaa was, as Darth Baras had suggested, the armpit of the galaxy. Quinn sighed, as he ran through his last checks before they docked. Vette was lounging on her bunk, one leg dangling off the side. She insisted on taking one of the top ones, despite Quinn steadfastly informing her they were all hers, as he couldn’t sleep a wink if not on a bottom bunk. She had given him the side eye and warned him not to ‘try anything’, which had netted her a confused, blank look, and then a blush when the Captain realised what she was implying. How crude. He was old enough to be her father, after all.

The human huffed, packing the last of the salve into his medkit, and stowing a knife up his sleeve. One could never have too many knives.

Malavai Quinn liked knives, and he liked them best when no one saw them coming.

“What is Nar Shaddaa like?” he asked as he straightened his collar, and made sure his gloves were secure and no skin was showing. Vette hadn’t even started to get ready yet, and they were due to dock in an hour. He’d had time to scrub his hands again, and the soft leather of his gloves was a welcome respite from the harsh, recycled air.

She shrugged, even as she lay on her back, going through what looked like a trashy holo-novel. Quinn had a nasty feeling Ven’fir had probably lent it to her.

“Air tastes like exhaust fumes,” she grunted. “People more or less shitty in direct relation to how rich they are.”

Malavai sighed. “Right, any areas we should avoid?” he asked, “I don’t know much about Nar Shaddaa, save for what I could look up.”

Vette popped her head up to give him a rather scathing look. “Oh, so the great Captain admits his books aren’t the be all and end all of the universe. Shocking.”

Quinn felt himself flush, and a frown creased his brow. What was wrong with books? “I never claimed them to be,” he muttered, annoyed and defensive. “Fine, you can be our guide then, and show Lord Polaris where to go.”

It was vindictive and petty, but Quinn felt the ghost of a smirk cross his lips when Vette scowled. Ven’fir had a horrible sense of direction, and could probably lose his feet in his socks. Therefore, neither of them wanted to be the one to have to guide him around, and eventually back to their actual objective.

“You should get ready,” he advised, eyeing her with barely hidden contempt. Her bunk was a mess. “I doubt Nar Shaddaa will appreciate the sight of _you_ in your underclothes.” he said under his breath, before leaving and pretending not to see the rude hand sign thrown his way. He joined Lord Polaris on the bridge, as the Sith was looking out into the starscape. The human made sure to make a little noise as he entered. People had remarked he could be too quiet.

“My Lord?” he asked, respectful to the last. “Are you ready? We dock in forty minutes.”

Ven’fir raised a brow. “Are you always so meticulous, Captain?”

Quinn blinked. “I suppose so, my lord. Does it bother you?”

The Sith shrugged. “You could stand to loosen up, is all.”

Malavai ducked his head. People always told him that, and it shouldn’t get to him -it shouldn’t-, but it _did_. He liked being accurate and he liked feeling safe and in control. People didn’t seem to understand that.

“I’ll be sure to work on it, my lord.” He murmured instead, eyes averted.

Ven’fir sighed, and tore his eyes from the stars. His irises were a deep golden amber, a true Sith colour. Quinn had known enough Sith to recognise it wasn’t his natural shade, and merely a sign of his use of the Dark Side. Idly, the human wondered what his Lord’s natural eye colour was. Brown would have looked nice, as would grey…

He blinked, shaking off the irrelevant thoughts. “You asked myself and Vette to accompany you, my lord. Are you expecting trouble?”

Ven’fir grinned, showing off his sharp teeth. One hand shot out to fasten an iron grip around his bicep, and the Captain flinched back, his own gloved fingers closing around the hilt of the knife sheathed at the small of his back. The Sith smirked, and let his eyes drop to the half-unsheathed knife, folding his arms. “About as much as you are, Quinn.” He chuckled, and the Captain nodded warily, forcing himself to relax. His heart beat against his chest and his breathing was shallow and controlled.

“Very good, sir.” He murmured, stowing the blade away carefully and ignoring the ache in his arm.

* * *

Malavai Quinn decided he did not like Nar Shaddaa. It was loud, the air was caustic and it hurt his throat and made his eyes water, and it was a den of hedonistic pleasures. That was fine, as Quinn was the kind of man who simply didn’t care what other people did until it personally impacted on him in some way, but that also meant that-

“Aw, this place is _great_!”

Malavai sighed. Ven’fir would love it. Typical. He trooped after Vette and the Sith, who seemed like an excited child, sulphur eyes wide and grin eager. Vette smiled fondly, and Quinn felt he was intruding on something warm. He backed off, it wasn’t his place to be part of that.

Ven’fir set off at a jaunty pace, letting Vette chatter to him about Nar Shaddaa. The young noble was obviously fascinated by the place, and it was almost endearing. They hadn’t made it ten steps before someone was requesting their help, and Quinn was already starting to see the reason Vette and Ven’fir complained so much. Asking a Sith Lord for help shutting down some street thugs? Disrespectful. Of course, that meant they were going to do it, and he sighed.

“My Lord, may I suggest we visit Setsyn first? We are likely to end up close to the area specified at some point anyway,” he reminded, hoping to keep them on track. To his utter relief, Ven’fir nodded.

“Good idea,” he allowed, “Come on then, I-“ he stopped, pausing. “ _Oh_.”

Quinn craned his neck to see what he was looking at, and found himself face to face with a speeder car. There didn’t seem to be anything weird about it, and he wasn’t sure what the problem was. It seemed to be the only way to get around the city, with its towering wards and long drops. It looked like a taxi much the same as could be found all over the galaxy. He looked to Vette, and she met his gaze, equally lost. He raised his brows at her, and she shrugged.

Ven’fir scowled. “Uh, go on then?” he gestured rudely to the speeder, waving his hand when neither of them moved. Quinn cleared his throat. “Sir, what are you asking? You want us to go ahead of you? There is room for all of us, I believe.”

Ven’fir’s scowl deepened. “No, I want you to _drive_.” He muttered, bad mood settling over him. Vette snorted. “I don’t know how to drive more than a speeder bike. I can fly a stolen shuttle, but I’ve never had the money for a private hire.” She admitted, not bothered to admit this. “Can’t _you_ drive it, mister best-teachers-in-the-galaxy?”

“No, I can’t.” Ven’fir ground out. Quinn almost cringed; _people were looking at them_. “I don’t know how.”

Vette jerked her head back. “Wait-“ she said, tone abrupt and jarring. “You can’t fuckin’ _drive_?” she demanded. “What about Dromund Kaas?”

“Pre-programmed.” Ven’fir said with a blush. Oh, that was a nice shade on his green skin. Quinn swallowed, his own cheeks heating up at the attention they were getting. He stepped forward. “I’ll drive us, my lord.” He offered, if only to get away from the _people_.

Ven’fir looked grateful, and Malavai found himself settling behind the wheel. Ven’fir sat beside him, and Vette was relegated to the back. She leaned forward anyway, eyes screwed up to avoid the biting, caustic wind from the open vehicle. Quinn shifted up a gear, and tried not to think about how one drunken driver or failure in the systems would have him killing his crewmates.

_Keep calm, you’ve been driving for decades, you_ know _how to drive, you idiot._

Vette wasn’t going to let this go.

“Hey,” she called over the wind, and poked the Sith’s shoulder. “How old are you? Have you seriously not learned yet? You’ve got the money.” She scoffed. “Are you secretly like… fifteen or something and don’t have your licence?”

Ven’fir bared his teeth. “I’m twenty-six, thank you.” He grumbled, and Quinn immediately felt _old_. “I… I was never allowed, okay? Mother said I should have people drive for me.” He said, his voice growing softer and more resentful. “Always wanted to learn, though.”

Vette grew quiet, and Malavai concentrated on his lane.

“I could teach you.”

The Captain blinked. That was his voice. Had he _really_ just offered- Yes, it seemed he had. How inappropriate.

“Not that I presume to teach you anything, my lord,” he backtracked, shifting down a gear and signalling for another vehicle to merge with his lane. “I’m sure you don’t need me to aid you, should you decide to take up-“

Malavai felt pressure on his shoulder, and he risked a glance down. A clawed gauntlet rested on his shoulder, and Ven’fir was looking at him.

“Thanks Captain,” the Sith murmured, “I’d appreciate that. I want to learn.”

The Captain cleared his throat and quickly fixed his eyes on the lane in front of him. The pressure disappeared from his shoulder, and he relaxed visibly.

“Then I shall do my very best to teach you, my lord.”

* * *

After they had disembarked the taxi (and Quinn had congratulated himself on not killing everyone), they made their way to their meeting point. Halidrell Setsyn seemed to ply her trade in the bowels of Nar Shadaa, which was appropriate. Vette’s expression soured the closer they got, and Malavai felt it best not to pry. He suspected he knew why she was so angry, and hoped she would be able to restrain herself until their business was done.

Slavery had never been something he had thought much of, as it was as much a part of Imperial life as leather gloves and rain on Dromund Kaas.

Therefore, he didn’t feel much of anything when they entered the office that dealt in people, and he ignored Vette’s muttered curses.

It seemed they had been beaten to Setsyn. He wished he could have been surprised, but the dozen or so people that Ven’fir had stopped to chat to and run errands for made arriving on time an impossibility.

Setsyn had a hand on her hip and a single brow raised, looking at the man in front of her like he was something she had scraped off her boot. She was a very pretty woman, the scar on her chin doing nothing to detract from her appearance.

“Believe me, you’re going to prefer the sugar to the spice,” she assured, lip curling. Her eyes flickered over to them as they entered, over the Exchange thugs shoulder. “Take one step closer and there’ll be two dozen Sith surrounding you.”

Malavai felt that was an exaggeration, as he suspected there weren’t even a dozen Sith on the planet. A sentiment, he realised, that was shared by the Exchange thug threatening her.

“Two dozen?” he scoffed, a smirk twisting a weak chin and lighting dulled eyes. “That’s a dead giveaway darlin’. You ain’t even got one.”

Quinn saw Setsyn’s lip curl further at the pet name, and he admired her composure. A quick glance beside him told him this was Ven’fir’s time to shine.

“I’ll have you know I’m worth at least five Sith,” the Mirialan called, smirking as he sauntered over. Dark robes fluttered at his ankles, “And Vette and Quinn here are two Sith each, easy.”

The thug turned, and looked them up and down, apparently finding them lacking. “Well, well, well, so you do got a Sith after all.”

Setsyn shrugged. “Told you.”

The thug eyed them up, lingering too long on Vette. Malavai felt distain curl low in his belly. “We’ve been trained to deal with Sith,” he assured. “I want the Twi’lek and the officer alive.” He ordered, cocky. “Slap collars on her and the Imperial. They’re pretty enough for sellin’. Kill the Sith.”

Ven’fir’s smile seemed to have slipped from his face. “They’re mine.” He muttered, amber eyes blazing as he ignited his blades. Vette drew twin blasters and flipped her lekku over a shoulder. “Just you try it,” she warned the thugs, eyes narrowed. Quinn was silent, drawing his own weapon. His blaster was heavy and comfortable in his hand, the grip worn almost smooth by years of handling. His other hand hovered by his belt, ready to pull a grenade, his medpack or a knife, should the need arise.

The idea of the collar made his skin crawl, and he swore he could feel the metal on his skin like a memory. He squeezed the grip on his blaster, he was in control.

 

* * *

When the battle was won and the Exchange men were dead and bleeding over Setsyn’s floor, the woman emerged from her hiding place. Her red hair was disheveled and she was wary, but her voice didn’t shake as she spoke.

“I could have probably handled that,” she said with a little grin. “But your timing was impeccable. You do have a flair for the dramatic entrances, don’t you?”

Ven’fir was all smiles again, now that the threat to his toys was dead. “I’m Sith,” he scoffed. “Of course I do.”

The redhead lets a smirk twist her full lips. “Well, I can’t say I don’t appreciate it.” She said simply, and Quinn could have sworn she was flirting. “You are the apprentice Darth Baras had me prep for, right?”

Ven’fir inclined his head. “That’s me.” He murmured, casting his eye over the slave pens. “Quite the selection you have here.” He commented, and Setsyn preened.

“Thank you,” she demurred, her smile widening. “All colours and creeds, right here.” She laughed, and it was a jarring bark of amusement that didn’t fit with her pretty exterior. “If you need extra hands, I could give you a good price.”

Ven’fir shook his head, and Malavai felt Vette relax a little next to him. The Mirialan waved a dismissive hand. “I have all I need right here, thank you.” He gestured to Vette and the Captain, who both felt self-conscious as Setsyn’s eyes rove over them like they were choice cuts of meat. The slaver had a little grin, eyes half lidded. “I’m sure,” she murmured, and her voice was a suggestive purr. She seemed to be trying to decide which of them the suggestion was to be aimed at, but eventually she seemed to decide on both. “He wasn’t wrong, you know.” She commented, nudging the cooling corpse of the Exchange thug with the toe of her boot. “People would pay good coin for one of them, you’re lucky.”

Ven’fir shrugged. “I guess.” He said shortly. Quinn, over his discomfort, noted that the Sith was being rather short with the slaver, which was odd. There was a pretty woman in front of him, who was interested. Yet, the Sith was keeping her at arm’s length. Malavai approached the problem like an equation in his head.

“Can we get on with this?” Vette interrupted, scowling. “The company is making me ill.”

Setsyn’s lip curled, and her arm twitched. The officer didn’t like the look on her face, and brushed a gloved hand on Vette’s arm to quieten her. The Twi’lek grunted and shrugged off the touch.

Malavai began to suspect that the Exchange might not actually be the biggest problem on Nar Shaddaa, and a look at Ven’fir’s expression cemented the dread feeling in his stomach. The Sith looked like an Nexu on the hunt, and a glance at Vette had him almost sighing out loud. The Twi'lek had her arms crossed, looking at Setsyn like she wanted to tear that pretty red hair from the human woman's head.

It almost made him miss Balmorra.

 


	6. Nar Shaddaa – Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion of Nar Shaddaa, and the showdown with Lord Rathari. 
> 
> Commander Naughlen meets his first Sith, and discovers that there are monsters in the galaxy that are not all teeth and claws.

  1. **Nar Shaddaa – Part Two**



Setsyn lounged as she explained the ‘plan’.

“Rathari can’t just beat on them,” she explained, brushing a strand of fiery hair behind her ear. “He has to play diplomat. The same applies to you, of course.”

Ven’fire shot her his most amiable grin, and was rewarded with a raised brow and a worried step back.

“I can be charming, hmm?” he murmured, “Can’t I, Vette?”

Vette snorted. “Yeah, I guess. As charming as a Krayt dragon.”

Setsyn nodded slowly, looking at them oddly. “Right… well, if things go to shit, best if there’s no one left to tell about what they saw, yes?”

The Sith ran the tip of a clawed gauntlet over his lightsaber, and watched as Setsyn’s eyes were drawn to the action.

“Keeping peace… Don’t do that often. Might be a fun change of pace.” He chuckled.

Setsyn smiled. “I’m sure. Now, I have another shipment to send out, but I’ll be here if you need me,” she assured, and there was something hopeful and hungry in her expression. Ven’fir reached out, the tips of his clawed gauntlets brushing against her delicate skin. “Of course you will.” He grinned, and relished the shudder in her breath. The woman was shaken, but it didn’t seem to lessen her desire. The Sith mentally shrugged as he released her. To each their own.

He turned to leave, a scowling Vette at his side, and a quiet officer trailing a little behind them. He felt untouchable. A few greedy slugs and a fellow apprentice would be nothing.

* * *

Quinn drove them again, and Ven’fir felt himself bursting to ask questions.

“What does that do?” he asked, pointing. The Officer glanced down for a slit second.

“That’s the clutch, my lord.” He murmured over the wind. “More modern hovercars don’t have them. I use that to change gear.”

“Why?”

He watched as Quinn’s mouth tightened as the human concentrated. “It’s a thing which engages and disengages power transmission from driving shaft to the driven shaft. The modern ones do it automatically.” The man said, as though he was reciting from a book. Which, Ven’fir rationalised, he probably was.

“…What’s a drive shaft?”

“My lord,” the officer said in a tight voice, merging with a lane and quickly moving out of the way of a delivery hovercar driving like a maniac, it’s holo-ads for Rattataki noodles distractingly bright. “If we may continue this conversation later? I require concentration.”

Ven’fir sighed. Quinn was no fun at all.

* * *

“Why is it,” Ven’fir mused as he circle the Zabrak apprentice, who bared his teeth. “That people always assume I’ll keel over as soon as they swing their lightsaber near me?”

Vette scoffed, both her blasters drawn and trained on Girik. “Dunno. Maybe it’s because of how weedy you are?”

Ven’fir frowned. “I am not.” He defended, sounding affronted. “Quinn, I’m not weedy, right? I’m pretty fucking solid, right?”

Quinn seemed to sigh, one hand holding his baster and the other poised to grab either a knife or med-pack. “Is this really the time, my lord?” he asked, weary.

Ven’fir’s scowl deepened. “Well, I just think it’s pretty rude. I’m not though, yeah?”

Girik seemed to froth at the mouth. “Stop ignoring me!” he howled, and ran at the Mirialan, his saber drawn and energy at his fingertips. Ven’fir raised his eyebrows, sidestepping and batting away the yellow blade with one of his own.

“Oi. Do you mind?” he muttered. “You don’t think I’m weedy, right?”

Girik, as many Sith who had come before him, lost his mind. He didn’t even bother with words, he just screamed and began laying into the Mirialan with fury filled blows.

Ven’fir grimaced and felt himself slide into his form, hands gripping his sabers comfortably. How rude.

* * *

Girik, predictably, didn’t last long.

“Lord Rathari will still be your and your Masters downfall!” he chocked, blood coating his mouth and his eyes wide. He toppled over, unable to support himself as he clutched as his stomach, blood pouring from the wound.

Ven’fir scoffed. “Grow up,” he muttered. “And this is me telling you that, so you know it’s true.” He ignited his crimson blade and held it to the Zabrak’s neck, the other apprentice watching his with hate. “At least you won’t live to see your Master die.” He shrugged, and with one swift slice, the apprentice was down.

He shivered, that felt surprisingly good. To kill with an audience, to have them quiet as he turned his attention on them after that display. He grinned, he could get used to that.

The Hutts gloated for a while, before finally getting down to business.

“Defeating Girik is one thing, little Sith.” One rumbled. Ven’fir honestly couldn’t tell which one it was, all Hutts looked worryingly the same to him. “Lord Rathari will be quite another. I have never seen a more vicious animal.” The Hutt shook his huge head, apparently in wonder.

Ven;fir bared his teeth. “Yet.” He corrected. “You haven’t seen a more vicious animal _yet_.”

One of the Hutts shot a look at the other, large eyes nervous. Ven’fir could almost taste the fear rolling off its slimy body.

The Hutt with the sterner disposition nodded. “We will not agree to the treaty unless you fail.” He said simply, “We will be watching.”

The Sith laughed.

“I do love an audience.”

* * *

The scene that awaited them at the Republic garrison was one of carnage. Smoke and blood and the chemical, metallic scent of exhausted heat cells filled the air. Ven’fir strode through it all, at home. A few young soldiers scrambled out of his way. He idly mused that he must look like a demon to them, armoured and hooded, claws on his fingers and eyes glowing molten, wading through blood and smoke like it was nothing. The idea of such fear was sort of funny.

A lone voice barked orders over the hubbub, the Imperial accent loud and clear. Quinn frowned, and came to his side, brushing his elbow with a hand.

“General Kligton, I believe.” He murmured. Vette leaned close too, not wanting to miss out. “I do not know much about him or his men, but I have heard he is a proud man.” The officer spoke, blue eyes scanning the battlefield. “I would tread carefully here, my lord. We do not want to make an enemy of the Imperial army just yet.”

Ven’fir nodded, and his mouth twisted into a smirk. “Does that include you, Quinn? Would you pull a blaster on me, if I went insane like the rest of them?”

The Officer raised a brow, expression cool. “Not a blaster, my lord.”

Ven’fir grinned, remembering all the sharp things the Captain liked to keep on his person. “I should have thought of that,” he allowed. “You’d have to get _very_ close for that to work, though.”

The officer heard the suggestion for what it was, and turned his head away, cheeks flushing slightly. “I’m sure, my lord.” He murmured.

Vette huffed. “Back to the matter at hand?” she whispered, nudging them both. “If you two could keep it in your pants for five minutes?”

Quinn went pink, and Ven’fir patted the Twi’lek on the shoulder. “Sorry for leaving you out, love. You can join in next time, promise.”

Vette make a disgusted noise in the back of her throat and Quinn spluttered, Ven’fir enjoying their protestations.

* * *

Commander Alfig Naughlen was a very practical man. His defences were holding, and his men were doing their jobs admirably. The Imperials were ruthless, shrewd and brutally efficient, but they had yet to breach his wall. He was about to issue new orders when the blaster fire paused. Weggland stuck his head up over the barricade and was rewarded with a bolt aimed towards his head. He hunkered down.

 “They’re still there,” he muttered, and Naughlen felt his mouth thin.

“Of course,” he said under his breath, “Get me some eyes on that mess!” he hissed out the order, not wanting to break this odd pause. He was brought a small binocularscope, and he used it to get a little view on the proceedings on the Imperial end. A figure in black armour, hooded and cloaked, was talking to an officer. Icy dread flooded his gut.

Sith.

He was about to order his men to prepare for one hell of a fight, when his eyes seemed to deceive him. The Sith, it seemed, was not here as reinforcements. The Imperials turned almost as one, and levelled their weapons at the Force user, to his astonishment.

The Sith reached for his belt, and Naughlen could have sworn he heard the snap-hiss of his lightsabers igniting. One was crimson, and one a deep purple, he noted. He had always wondered of colour meant anything to these Force types.

A few more words were exchanged, the standoff tense.

What happened next was nothing short of a slaughter.

He watched, a little sick to his stomach, as the Sith did their work for them. “Alf, what have you gotten into this time?” he mumbled under his breath, “Men, we have Sith on the field.” He said a little louder, not taking his eyes off the massacre unfolding below him.

Worried whispers fluttered through the air like moths, and he heard curses. Sith were terrifying prospects to meet on the battlefield when you weren’t tired and worn down, let alone as a surprise.

He squinted through the binocularscope again, and his stomach dropped. The noise had stopped, and there was only the faintest hum and the sound of heavy footsteps. The Sith was coming for them, flanked by a Twi’lek and a stone-faced Imperial, both armed. He grunted his findings to his men, hoping against hope they would live through this.

Weggland nudged him, face set in a worried scowl. “Sir,” he hissed, “The Sith has been spent destroying our enemy. If we strike now, we might have a chance!”

He heard a few agreeing mumbles, but shook his head, settling his nerve. “No. After that display, fighting should be our last resort.” He said, grim. He moved closer to the edge of the barricade. “Stay back, and cover me.” He muttered, before standing up and doing his best to ignore the sinking feeling of dread in his belly.

He finally came face to face with his first Sith, and he regretted every moment he had ever mocked a fellow solider for their fear.

The figure was not twelve feet tall and huge as some liked to pretend, but rather a man of average height and stature, and Mirialan, it seemed. He had thought Sith could only be human, or those red ones.

The Sith was armoured all in black, his gauntlets possessing curved claws that, Naughlen realised with a lurch, gently dripped blood onto the permacrete. A dark robe was thrown loosely over his armour, a deep hood obscuring much of his appearance. A few strands of dark hair brushed his brow, and his eyes were molten metal, searing and wild. The soldier swallowed, facing a nightmare.

“Sith,” he called, and was grateful his voice didn’t waver. “I am Commander Naughlen. I oversee this defensive, and I am unarmed.”

The Sith grinned, and Naughlen had never though Mirialan’s teeth could look so frightening. There was a nasty scar over his nose, and a few geometric tattoos over his face. He looked like an gundark about to pounce and rip them limb from limb, eager and bloodthirsty.

“You’re very brave, Commander.”

Naughlen almost jumped when the Sith spoke. His voice was… normal. He had expected an inhuman, guttural sound. Instead, it was spoken in a purr that was almost filthy, the Imperial accent unmistakable.

The Sith locked eyes with him again, and the Commander felt pinned, like he had fallen into the Nexu enclosure in the Corellian zoo he had taken his daughter to a few months ago.

“Tell your men to lower their weapons, now.” The young Sith ordered, and Naughlen nodded, his legs felt like jelly.

“All weapons down, men.” He ordered, and felt his nerves recede a little when his voice didn’t crack.

“There,” The Sith murmured, his gaze raking over Naughlen’s men, each one shivering as the sulphur yellow gaze passed over them. “That’s more civilized, hmm?”

Blood dripped gently from the Sith’s fingers, staining the floor.

Naughlen swallowed painfully.

“We do not wish a fight, Sith.” He began, and faltered when that grin widened as if to say, _‘of course you don’t’_. “But we cannot relinquish this area. What are your terms?”

The Sith kept smiling. Naughlen risked a glance at the man’s companions again. The skinny Twi’lek didn’t look military, and she seemed uneasy with keeping her weapons trained on surrendered men. Good to know.

The human seemed to be an officer, a Captain by the bars on his uniform. He was stone faced and calculating, and Naughlen saw his eyes move over the men and the exits, mentally cataloguing each. Sharp, that one. Sharp, and fully willing to kill, if his unwavering hold on his blaster was any indication.

The Sith chuckled. “You will live today, Commander.” He said, and Naughlen didn’t trust the surge of hope in his gut. “If only by my… good grace.”

Naughlen didn’t trust to ‘good grace’ of a Sith as far as he could throw one.

The young man tilted his head. “I may have need of you on this cesspool of a planet,” he smiled. “You will come when you are called, and you will repay my mercy in whatever way I see fit.”

Naughlen wanted to protest. Being in debt to a Sith? He could think of few things worse.

Instead, he nodded slowly. “I… I understand.” He muttered, feeling wrong for this. “If your mission does not conflict with Republic interests…” he took a breath, “Then yes, we shall come.”

The Sith smiled wider.

“Good,” he purred, almost cheery. “I like a man who can think,” he chuckled, and Naughlen got the impression he was being flirted with. He blinked, and the Sith laughed. The Commander shivered at the sound.

He reached for his datapad, and froze when the Imperial Captain snapped his gaze to him, and had his blaster trained between his eyes in an instant.

“Hold it,” he ordered, his Imperial accent sharp and clipped. “Slowly.”

Naughlen nodded, a lump in his throat. “Just getting my datapad.” He assured, tone as even and soothing as he could make it. The Imperial didn’t seem to be affected, keeping his pistol trained firmly on Nauglen’s head. The Commander swore he could feel the sights burning a hole into his skin.

“Here is my holofrequency,” he said, aware of his men’s eyes on him. “I will answer your call, you’ve got my word.”

 _Please_ , he mentally begged, _believe me and go._

The Sith grinned. “See, Quinn?” he addressed the officer, who narrowed his eyes on Naughlen, pistol still up. “ _Some_ people don’t play coy with their holofrequency.”

Naughlen blinked. The Sith was flirting, and now with his _own_ officer. Were all Sith like this?

“Until we meet again, Sith.” He bid, hoping to end this as soon as he could. He needed to get out of the Sith’s presence. He didn’t know if it was nerves or some Force trick, but his head was swimming and he felt sick.

“Count on it, Commander.” The Sith leered, and his eyes seemed to say _‘I own you’_. Naughlen felt his breath catch, and he forced the feeling away.

The Sith turned to leave, even exposing his back to them all. Naughlen supposed it didn’t matter, those two companions of his closed ranks behind him swiftly enough. Loyal.

“The battle is over, men.” He called, trying to re-orientate himself. “Attend to the wounded.”

He caught Weggland’s eye, and swallowed painfully. The junior officer’s expression was ashen.

What had they gotten themselves into?

* * *

When his comm sounded, he felt a wave of apprehension. It had only been a few hours, and already the Sith was calling in the debt? At least the wait wouldn’t be too long.

He took a breath, and answered the call, stepping away from his men and into a more secluded area.

“Sith.” He greeted. He felt a little more in control now, when then Sith was only a little blue figure on his palm. “I can’t say I’m going to enjoy this.”

The Sith grinned at him, an Naughlen was getting sick of that smile. Sith were supposed to be fury and hatred and brutish strength, not smiling aliens with mind games and odd bouts of mercy.

“Why, Commander, I’m giving you a chance most Republic solders only dream of,” the hooded figure spoke. “The glory of bringing down a Sith Lord.”

Naughlen felt shock hit his system a few seconds after he registered the words. “A Sith Lord?” he repeated, and felt foolish when the Sith laughed.

“Yes, Commander. You’re getting off easy, don’t be squeamish now.” He teased, wagging one clawed finger at him. Naughlen felt anger flicker in his gut. “What’s a bit of murder between friends?”

“We are not friends.” He muttered, and the Sith laughed again. “But I suppose if I have a pay a debt, that’s not so bad a task.” He admitted. It was true. It would be a hell of a fight, but at least it wasn’t acting against the Republic. “A soldier pays his debts. Tell me where.”

The Sith grinned.

* * *

Naughlen watched through his binoculars as the Sith and his two companions walked into the killing field laid out for them. Rathari was _right there_ , and Naughlen itched to take a shot at him. No, he would do this the proper way.

They spoke, and Naughlen could only assume posturing and trash talk were going on, judging by the Sith’s body language. The skinny man with Rathari seemed to have opinions on a lot of things, but Naughlen didn’t much care. He just wanted to be rid of this whole situation.

“Mmm,” the Sith’s voice sounded in his ear, a little muffed from the distance, but the mic was picking up clear enough. “Is that so? Unfortunately for you, _your_ men are going to be a little busy with _my_ men.”

Naughlen stowed his binoculars and nodded. “That’s the signal.” He called, and activated his jet boost, allowed him to land with no broken bones on the hard tile of the roof. His gun was out and pointed straight at his target. It felt odd to be on the side of a Sith.

Said Sith only grinned, half hidden by his hood, and Rathari shook his head in wonder. The Sith Lord was what he imagined Sith to be, unnaturally pale and sickly, a huge and hulking beast of a being.

The young Sith stepped forward, scenting blood. “So, Rathari,” he began, amused. “Do you dance?”

Rathari chuckled.

“Well enough,” he muttered, eyes glittering and cybernetics making his face look lopsided. He ignited his blade, and the violet hummed in his hand. Naughlen realised he didn’t even know his Sith’s name. He mentally shook himself. ‘His Sith’ indeed.

The Mirialan ignited his own weapons, the glow from his dual sabers making the sharp line on his face stand out in sharp relief. “I always value a good partner,” he muttered, and then there was no more time for thinking.

* * *

Naughlen could barely believe what he was seeing. Rathari’s men has been hard to take down, but now they were dead and there was nothing stopping him from watching the two Sith duel. It was awe inspiring and terrifying to watch. Rathari was raw power, strikes that cracked permacrete and a resilience that Naughlen shivered at.

The Mirialan was all speed and agility, his precision and efficiency was beautiful to watch in a way that made Naughlen feel sick. He knew now that talking it out had been the right call. How could he have been expected to take down something like that?

The two Sith were vicious and brutal with each other as they threw around Force powers with reckless abandon, though Naughlen spotted the Imperial and the Twi’lek pitching in. The blue skinned woman had been firing her twin blaster non-stop, before Rathari had hurled a piece of rubble her way and she hadn’t managed to dodge all the shrapnel.

The Imperial was taking shots where he saw them, maximising efficiency and making every shot count. Naughlen was grudgingly admiring of that, the Empire trained its officers well. He appeared to be a medic too, if his patching up the injured Twi’lek was any indication.

And just like that, the battle was over. One mistake from Rathari and he was on the floor, groaning and clutching his chest. The Mirialan stood over him, panting. His hood had fallen to show the rest of his face. Green skin shone with exertion, and blood flowed from a split lip. His ribs seemed to hurt from how he held himself, but his hand was steady as his blade singed Rathari’s neck. His eyes blazed. The Sith Lord looked up with wide eyes.

“I… I yield.” Rathari gasped out, “I have never… never felt such raw power.”

Naughlen didn’t think that was a good sign.

Rathari coughed and there was blood. “The day and the planet are yours,” he managed, expression still amazed. The skinny man began to back away, afraid.

“No. Oh, no, no, no, you can’t do this to-“ he never got the finish, and Rathari lifted a shaking, bloodied hand and clenched his fist, an unseen force exerting pressure on the man’s neck, and swiftly snapping it. Naughlen felt ill at the irreverent death.

“The threat is gone,” the injured Sith Lord rasped. “I hope…” he winced. “I hope this ingratiates me to you in some way.”

The Mirialan’s smile was wide and nasty. “Oh, it does.” He nodded, expression intense.

Rathari nodded, breath ragged. “It’s clear to me now,” he managed. “You will rise above your master. It is you who will be Darth Baras’ end.”

Naughlen saw the officer frown, and the Mirialan chuckle. “If you say so,” he murmured, seemingly content to let the other Sith continue.

“I would ask… I would ask that you grant me mercy,” Rathari asked, and there seemed to be no shame in his voice. “So that I may see that day. Allow m-me to have some small hand in it.”

The Mirialan seemed genuinely taken aback by the request, and his smile was calculating. He chuckled, and crossed to the fallen warrior, who looked up at him like a akk puppy. He bent down, and gently touched the Sith’s jaw in a way that was almost intimate, his clawed gauntlets surprisingly gentle with delicate skin. Rathari was very quiet. “You’ll be mine?” the young Sith asked, voice low and eyes bright under a mop of dark hair.

Rathari nodded, nearly leaning into the touch. The young Sith smiled. “Good.” He murmured, “Go and heal yourself, and I will call on you.”

The Lord seemed to find this acceptable, and his eyes lit up with fervour. “I will await your summons.” He breathed, getting to his feet with difficulty. “I am yours now, my lord.”

The Mirialan nodded, pleased. “Go.”

Rathari left, not as the fiery, hulking menace as he had been, but cowed man, happy in that fact. Naughlen had no idea what had just happened, only that the Sith’s attention was now back on him.

Those molten eyes bored into his own. Even with those injuries, the Sith still looked like he could kill him and his squad with his bare hands.

“Now…. What to do with you.” He the Sith seemed to be teasing him, but Naughlen was in no mood for games.

“Sith,” he said, keeping his voice steady by will alone. “It’s just us now. We did as you asked, you got what you wanted.”

At least he assumed the Sith had.

“May we go?”

He felt rotten asking for permission like this, from an Imperial, a Sith and a man who must have been no older than twenty-five. The officer had appeared at the Sith’s side, supporting the injured Twi’lek, who seemed to be trying to wave off the human man’s fussing. The Sith ignored them.

“You’ve been good.” The Sith purred. “And I’m in a decent mood. Sure.”

Naughlen wanted to be certain.

“We can leave in peace?”

The Sith laughed. “Yes, you can leave in peace.” He smirked. “I have your holo, Commander. Who knows, I may call if I get lonely.” He teased, and Naughlen felt his cheeks heat up. Sith really were hedonists.

“With respect, Sith.” He began, feeling his stomach begin to unclench as the danger appeared to pass. “I hope we never meet again.”

The Mirialan just smiled.

“The Galaxy is smaller than you think, Commander.” He called as Naughlen was making to leave. “You never know who you’ll bump into.”

Naughlen helped on of his boys walk to the steps leading off the roof. “I hope to the gods it’s not you.” He muttered as he left, glancing over his shoulder to the black armoured figure.

It seemed almost impossible that he had survived all that. He would have stories to tell at the cantina now, he supposed. He thought back to the Mirialan’s smile, and shivered. He hoped he would never meet another Sith in his lifetime.

The galaxy held monsters, and some of them came in all too familiar skins, until you looked into their eyes and saw only hunger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There'll be romance at some point, honest.


	7. The Fury (En route to Tatooine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three very different people experience of living together on a small ship. One gets a inconvenient wake up call, and wrestles with irreconcilable truths. One feels like this is the latest in a litany of bad luck and worse decisions, struggling to keep above the water. The last feels the darkness creeping in, and doesn't fall so much as take its hand and let it lead the way down.

Quinn was a private kind of man. He was so private, in fact, Vette couldn’t really see him as more than part of the furniture, or perhaps a protocol droid. It came as a great surprise then, to learn he had family.

Lord Polaris was chattering away to the both of them over their evening meal, complaining about his own family. He was an only child (Vette could not have been less surprised), but had a multitude of cousins, second cousins, nieces and nephews. They were all insufferable, apparently. Vette nodded in all the right places as she ate and made hums of agreement every so often, which was more than Quinn seemed to be bothering with. The man looked dog-tired, and she watched him mechanically eat his food, his head low.

“Captain, have you got any family?” Polaris asked suddenly. “For some reason, I didn’t think you did.”

Quinn looked up, storm blue eyes drained but awake.

Vette sniggered. “Nah, Quinn just appeared one day, spontaneously created by the sheer force of Imperial patriotism. Or maybe he was built, like a _droid_?”

It had been meant as a joke, but the Captain narrowed his eyes and his lip curled. His posture stiffened, and he placed his fork back on his plate fussily.

“I have family back on Dromund Kaas.” He said simply, stiff and not supplying more than that. Ven’fir tilted his head to the side like a curious puppy. It was an endearing habit of his, and it made him seem softer, and less likely to tear your heart from your chest. Having witnessed him do exactly that before, she shivered. That had been horrible.

“Family?” the Sith repeated. “Like what, a mother and father, brothers, a cat?” he prompted.

Quinn pursed his lips, looking uncomfortable. “My mother is a retired naval officer, and my father died when I was young. She remarried some years ago. I have one sister, and my mother despises all animals.” He said, reluctantly.

Vette grinned. “I can see you as a cat kind of guy,” she admitted, and the Captain shrugged, making even that action seemed poised. “I don’t mind dogs either, as long as they’re friendly.” He murmured.

Polaris nodded. “You were on Balmorra for a long time. Did you see them when you were on leave?” he asked, seeming to assume the answer would be a positive. Quinn’s mouth was a grim line.

“No.” he said shortly.

“Oh. Why?”

The Captain’s patience was running thin, but Vette didn’t like him enough to rescue him.

“We do not get along.” He ground out. “My mother is a hard woman to please, and my sister is busy with her work.” He paused. “My apologies, my Lord. I do not wish to speak of this further.”

He looked embarrassed and his eyes flickered to Vette in slight apprehension. The Twi’lek pretended not to notice. Did he think she would tease him about this?

If so, he was right. She shot him a sunny smile, and watched as his shoulders tensed, and he swallowed painfully. The officer rose, leaving half his meal unfinished.

“I think I will retire and get some sleep, if that’s alright?” he muttered, clearing away his plate and robotically washing it, before stacking it neatly with the others. Most of them already had chips in the enamel.

He marched from the room like he was made of metal, stiff and awkward. Polaris frowned. “He’s upset.” He said, voice low. Vette snorted.

“Uh, _yeah_.” She drawled. “Caught that, did you? There’s some ammunition in the family thing, I can tell.”

The Sith’s frown deepened. “I don’t know if you should poke at that, Vette.” He said in a rare moment of compassion. “Looks like a sore subject.”

Vette shook her head. “If he wants me to shut up, he can say so.” She said simply, and Polaris seemed to agree. At least, he went back to his food and didn’t argue further. He must have been genuinely concerned, she realised. Getting Ven’fir to ignore food for even a few minutes was a monumental task, not to mention obtaining the sheer quantity required to feed him. Vette was sure she was going to have to resort to smugglers and back alley dealers to get them supplies, as the Sith was obviously determined to eat them out of house and home.

Home.

She realised with a start that the ship had begun to feel that way. It wasn’t there yet, it felt more like a comfortable hotel room right now, not really hers, but it was more than she had been used to in the last decade. She sighed, and heaped more food onto her plate before Ven’fir ate it all.

Life wasn’t so bad, right now.

* * *

If life was good for Vette, it was quite the opposite for Quinn.

The conversation played on his mind, and he found himself penning a holo-mail to his sister. She was technically not his full sister, and she bore his step-father’s name. He grimaced at the thought. The idea of having a step-father was not a terrible one, and the man was perfectly nice. It just made his family life seem that much more out of place, and therefore potentially embarrassing. He sighed, and hit ‘send’. He always had got along well with her, despite everything that should have made sure they hated each other. He outlined what he had been up to, and asked the usual questions. He knew what he shouldn’t bother asking, and stayed off topics of work. Those were sensitive.

His mother hadn’t replied to his last message, but he had not expected her to. She was busy being a socialite, something she had never gotten to experience in her youth. The life seemed to agree with her, and some part of him had hoped she would have perhaps become softer with her newfound happiness. It had not been so, and he had almost been glad for Balmorra.

He felt a yawn coming on, and his jaw strained as he did so. He was exhausted, but he wasn’t finished yet. He sighed, and rubbed his eyes. He felt thin and stretched, trying to do too much on too little sleep. He yawned again and got ready for bed, the routine calming him and making him look forward to an early night and warm covers. Tomorrow would be better. He would fix things tomorrow, and be productive. With that fragile, wobbly promise in his mind, he managed to send himself off to sleep.

* * *

Vette liked sleep. She liked sleep a lot, especially when it was deep, uninterrupted and followed a good meal. She didn’t often get that feeling, and she relished it when she managed to hold onto it.

She was less therefore than pleased to be woken only a few hours after her head had hit the pillow. She awoke groggily, not sure what had made her stir, but aware something must have. She blinked in the darkness, and slowly her brain filtered information through. Thinking was a slow process, but like light was on in the small bathroom that joined onto the crew quarters. A lone figure was in there, the door only half shut. She levered herself up on her elbows, watching. Quinn, still in his sleeping clothes, was leaning over the sink, his head bowed. His undershirt was stretched over his shoulders as his arms supported him.

Even his sleeping clothes were long sleeved and covered almost as much skin as his uniform did. Vette wasn’t stupid. He didn’t like being touched, hated showing skin and the one time she had gotten close to his neck to tend to a cut after a fight, he had all but smacked her hand away. That went beyond fussiness and being a prude. She frowned, watching him breathe deeply and rhythmically. He was calming himself, she realised.

He took a shuddering breath and ran some water, tiredly splashing his face and neck, a shiver that didn’t look like it was from cold running down his spine when his fingers met the junction between shoulder and jaw.

She heard him sigh and murmur a soft, tired curse to his reflection. He looked terrible, tired and weary. She was struck when she realised she had never heard him swear before now. He turned to leave, and Vette quickly feigned sleep. She listened to him turn out the light again and pad back to his bed, his footfalls quiet and slow. A rustle of sheets and then all was silent, and eventually his breathing evened out and he slept once more.

Vette lay awake, her mind churning.

Quinn suddenly felt like a _person_.

It was an odd feeling, and one that made her mind skew. He had nightmares, he woke up in the middle of the night and did breathing exercises in the mirror to calm down. He didn’t like to show skin, and his sleeping pants were at least a size too big for him and far too long. He didn’t get along with his family.

All this, for some reason, made her sleep addled brain see him in a different light. He was still annoying, fussy and she didn’t like him. But he was a person now.

Somehow, that changed things.

* * *

The quiet hum of the ship was the perfect counterpoint to the stillness of meditation for Ven’fir. Mirialan had never been comfortable with total silence, feeling claustrophobic and uncomfortable when faced with the deafening heaviness of peace weighing down on him, pressing into his ears and his lungs like wool. His eyes were closed, his hands rested in his lap as he knelt on the floor, a cushion under his knees.

Keeping still had always been a challenge in his youth, and the soles of his feet still bore raised scars from a biting leather crop. He breathed deeply, senses both muffled and keenly aware of everything around him.

The hum of the engines was first, and quickly settled into a background bass that beat steady in the back of his mind. Then came the workings of the machinery that kept his ship together, kept air in their lungs and the deathly cold of the vacuum just a few meters away from snuffing them out. It beeped a stable rhythm over the engines, a calming addition to the noise. The taste of the filtered air hit the back of his throat, carrying with it the scent of military grade cleaning fluid, fresh paint and the undercurrent of metal and oil. A hint of the meal they had shared a few hours ago lingered in the air.

Goosebumps on his skin. He liked it cold, if only to make the eventual warmth more pleasant.

He felt the odd void of Too-vee, powered down and static in the corner of the galley. No Force flickered around the droid, just emptiness.

Vette’s presence was fresh, like sweet-scented spring breezes off a mountain, flighty and bracing. She was energy and electric, the flickers of her signature only slightly muted as she slept. She was a cold stream, fast flowing and deceptively banal. She carried flecks of gold in her eddies.

Quinn was almost drowned out by Vette. His presence felt like embers, the last dregs of a blazing fire whose intensity was only matched by its hazard. The fire had been snuffed out and now lay cooling, a comfortable warmth that was slowly being smothered by an aloof, creeping cold. His presence was wound tight like a spool of wire and razors, something dark covered by a thin veil of unassuming blandness. Underneath even that was a roiling ball of energy, emotions passing by each other too quickly for him to pick up on, but the drowning feeling he got was unpleasant.

Ven’fir could feel his own signature all over the ship and the two people who lived in it. He felt a flare of possession. It was all his. He had never really had anything that belonged only to Ven’fir, and not House Polaris.

 _This_ was his. _His own_. Something tugged at his chest, and a fierce sense of possession bloomed inside his stomach, hot and ticklish. He wanted more. The feeling of ownership was intoxicating, and the ease of taking was addictive.

He breathed out through his nose, his meditation turning to a perverse daydream. He stood on the bridge of a colossal Imperial dreadnought, blur-faced Imperials bowing to him, a sea of stars visible out of the panoramic windows, just waiting to be claimed. His armour was impenetrable, his sabres were by his side and the Force was his servant. His family cowered as they looked on, his mother sour faced and cowed. His instructors were inexplicably present, witnesses to the glory they said a filthy alien would never achieve.

He saw Vette behind him, smirking and confident, dressed in the finest battle armour and her hands on gleaming twin blasters. She was at his side, his enforcer and his loyal subject. Vette looked haughty and perfect, powerful in her stance and his stomach lurched with that feeling again.

He barely had the time to wonder what was missing from this vision of might before the dream shifted. Tones of blush and shadow took over his vision, an image in the third person coming to him. He was in a hazy room on some unnamed planet, a dying red sun visible from an arched stone window and shedding crimson light onto the sandstone and the diaphanous, translucent fabrics hanging around the windows.

He felt like a voyeur as he watched a man with his green colouring and tattoos pant on the bed, his skin shining with moisture. His expression was carnal and ravenous. His eyes blazed deep Sith amber as he fucked into the body beneath him, it’s pale skin flushed, dark hair feathered over its forehead.  The sound of metal was incongruous with the softness of the bed, and the sight of straining cuffs around slim, pale wrists was enough to make him lose his breath. The body under his arched into him with shamelessness that would never be seen in the waking world, a breathy litany of begging, filthy moans falling from lips that had been bitten plush and red. Dark lashes brushed pink cheeks, fluttering. One green skinned hand was wound in dark hair, the grip keeping his lovers head forced up to face him as he gripped onto the sable strands painfully. He watched as the grip went lax and the hand moved to a pale throat, wrapping around it with sinful ease, and beginning to tighten. A low, desperate moan fell from the man so utterly conquered by the figure on top of him, and Ven’fir watched passively as his double squeezed harder and moved his hips at a brutal pace, encouraged by the lovely thing writhing beneath him.

He glanced at his face and he would have stopped breathing had he ever started. His double’s expression was predatory and frenzied, his eyes wide and intense, his lips pulled back from his teeth like a wild animal. The dream-self used the body until he was satisfied, and his lover voiced no words other than husky murmurs of _‘more’_. His double stuttered and cursed, his back arching and teeth biting into his lip hard enough to draw blood as his body seized with a wave of utter sensation, his hand holding his lover in place long enough to be beyond the point of pain. Blue eyes opened and gazed adoringly upwards, unguarded and reverent. It would be burned into his mind forever, he decided, this image of a man looking up at the god who was ruining him so gloriously, and worshipping him with every second of adoration.

With a start, Ven’fir was back in his quarters, the noises of the ship coming back to him. He was breathing heavily, and there was perspiration on his brow. He felt hot and wound tight, and he ached. Breathing out a shaky breath, he rolled his shoulders and stood up on shaking legs, intent of retiring as fast as he could, while the memory of that dream was still fresh.

He grinned to himself and he removed his loose robe, dropping it carelessly over the back of his desk chair. The dream had been a thoroughly pleasant one, and the thrill of power and possession was still thrumming in his veins. His eyes glowed a baleful amber as dark, warm thoughts invaded his mind, and he succumbed to them eagerly. His mind was occupied only with its own pleasure, and nothing else was distracting enough to pull him from his desires.

It didn’t matter if the real thing was a disappointment; he had this for now.

Dark temptation presented itself like a lover, and the young Sith eagerly embraced it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never written anything even vaguely sexy, until this. I have no idea if it sounds too contrived or silly, and it would be good to get some feedback on it if anyone would be so kind.
> 
> Ven'fir is a spoiled young brat, and like many spoiled young brats, he's not very nice. He sees everyone like toys, things to use and throw away when he's bored. It's not an endearing personality trait. So far in the story, he hasn't felt anything that has threatened him too much, so he's had no reason to grow up. Those who have completed the Sith Warrior storyline will know that this won't last for him. It's going to get ugly.


End file.
